(Untitled)

[balletrat]

*Meg is sitting on a stool, her back against the bar, watching the rest of the room; there's a half-empty cup of coffee in her hands.

She looks . . . on edge.*

Comments

[spcl_agt_cooper]

O RLY?

As the owls say.

Dale Cooper wanders up, hands in his pockets.

[balletrat]

*Meg instantly relaxes!

In the way where her back stiffens and her eyes narrow and we live in opposite land.

Her voice amiable:* Salut.

[spcl_agt_cooper]

Opposite Day is Wednesday! Everybody knows that.

For shame.

Salut, she says?

He snaps one. Beaming.

[balletrat]

*Days tend to blend together when you're dead, alas. It is, one might say, a thing. Therefore, Meg can possibly be excused.

She eyes him, with a small puzzled frown, before studying her own fingers and snapping back.*

. . . is this some sort of secret signal? *she asks, lightly.*

[e_delmar]

Well, he doesn't mean to, that's for sure, but when he goes to get a drink from the bar, can't quite help it when his arm knocks into hers, spilling a bit of each of their drinks.

"Sorry, there, Miss Meg."

[balletrat]

Oh - ne t'inquietes pas, *Meg says, with an easy smile for Ennis.*

Dieu only knows I've done my share of knocking into people around here -

[e_delmar]

Ennis sort of squints his eyes as he stumbles over her friends, but he nods and clears his throat and takes it as an acceptance of his apology. He doesn't quite ask her how her day's been, but he sits down on the stool next to her, looking awkwardly into his drink.

[balletrat]

So how're you?

*Meg turns her head to look at him, though her eyes stray out to the main bar every few moments.*

[q_in_training]

She's put it off as long as she could, but she can put it off no longer. Butters keeps circling with his corsage choices like a freaking shark.

So a little ways down the Bar, a very resigned-looking Mac is paging through a low-end department store catalogue. This time of year, they're devoting multiple pages to prom dresses.

Joy.

[balletrat]

*. . . Meg is Parisian.

Evil demon or no evil demon, who is she to resist the lure of the latest fashions?

Therefore, she may be craning her head to see the front of the catalogue. Just a little.*

[q_in_training]

Shoes are in prominent display on the cover. Lots of shoes.

...Crap, Mac's going to need shoes, too. All the nice ones she owns (of which there aren't a lot) are black and way, way too pointy. Her date is not worth three hours in extra-pointy shoes.

Stupid prom. Stupid Butters. Stupid Veronica.

Some of that might have accidentally become a half-audible mutter as she flips back to the shoes.

[balletrat]

*A blink.

Now Meg is curious.

She edges her stool down the bar a little, towards the other girl, and tilts her head.*

. . . do you have something in particular against butter?