Thid class, dining.
The mime did not like being a mime. She'd been a mime for five whole minutes, and she was sure she hated it more than nearly anything. Okay, maybe she was exaggerating, but she really didn't like it at all. The black and white striped shirt she wore was soft, but that was the only good thing about any of it. She hated the little black hat that rested atop her black hair, and she hated the black pants, and she really couldn't stand the suspenders. The white paint on her face made her want to itch, and she blamed all of it on the downturned smile that extended just past her bowed lips.
At first, the mime was so busy hating on being a mime, that she didn't even notice that she was on a ship. She was trying to get her perennially white gloves dirty (fingers fruitlessly dragged along the dusty railing), when the ship tilted.
The mime knew that land did not tilt unless she was drunk. The mime was not drunk.
Gloved fingers closed around the railing, and the mime looked dooooown.
The mime didn't like this newest development any more than she liked being a mime. She tried to take her horrible little hat and toss it into the choppy sea, but it wouldn't budge, and she sighed as she turned back around and slid down to sit in a dejected pile on the deck.
If the mime could talk, she would ask why me? But the mime could not talk, and the mime could not ask. The mime sat.
And sat. And sat. And sat.
And then the mime was done with that, and she jumped up to her feet with new determination. Feeling sorry for herself was for out there. She didn't understand about inhibition, because she was a simple little mime, but she knew what she felt. She felt angry. She felt like she wanted to hurt someone. She wanted to scream.
She opened her mouth, and she tipped her head back to the night sky, and she screaaaaaaamed.
Silence. Silence. More silence.
With a huff of displeasure, the mime hung her head. It took herculean effort for her to move her feet in a lugubrious shuffle, but she made her way inside. The mime didn't like being inside, but she was hunched shoulders and small steps all the way to the stairs and down.
Down, down, down. Until the stairs stopped.
Frustratingly clean white-gloved hands on the walls of the thin hallway, she shuffled toward the music in the dining room.