Camille is patently unsentimental. However, pragmatic or not, there are still some things in life that it pays to take care of.
Pens are one of them, which is why Camille is retracing her steps in search of her favourite one, and which is why she approaches the booth and then looks a tad less than pleased that someone is there.
Pens are one of them, which is why Camille is retracing her steps in search of her favourite one, and which is why she approaches the booth and then looks a tad less than pleased that someone is there.
"Uh, pardon, senora..."
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Oh, fuck.
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She knows that accent.
She knows that inflection of her name.
She knows those features, albeit in male form.
"Dominic?"
(Or, should that be Dominique?)
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Study it carefully.
The way she's covering her face ought to be good enough of an answer.
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Carefully,
"I...believe that the term used is 'fucking milliways'."
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"... Fucking Milliways."
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"Care for a drink?"
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This said, she uncovers her face, rubbing at one eye with the palm of her hand.
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"You do make a very attractive woman, at least."
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And, throwing her head back, she drains the rest of the bottle, before drawing back to take a look at her reflection in the glass.
Apparently, this is a bit too bizarre for Dominic to handle at the moment, as the bottle gets pushed to one side shortly afterwards.
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"How long have you been, uh."
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Read: long enough to drink a bottle of vodka all on her lonesome.
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She hasn't really tried.
"Where did you have in mind?"
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Beat.
"Please."
Manners are important. Even when drunk.
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