Evening on SL
Philo's eyes were on the ceiling and on his journal, alternately.

The journal was a silly habit. One he'd adopted in med school, mainly to make himself seem more attractive to Mary-Claire, who now in all likelihood lay dead at the bottom of a lake or some such. It didn't matter. His quips and insights hadn't faded with her, but they had faded. He thought often that they had faded with Colette. It was an easy answer, and one to which he clung like driftwood in a storm. It simplified things. Made it all cleaner.

Still, there was a time to reflect, and a time to act. This was neither, but Philo felt it would be in his best interest to leave. Get out. He lived on the most varied ship in the fleet (or so the rumor was. He hadn't been on another) and it was only right he should see it. He stood, tucked the journal into his desk drawer, and stepped into the corridor.

All corridors led to the biodomes, and he could be certain that if he walked along them that was where he would come to. He had no intention of coming out at the biodome though. He veered off, looking for solace in a bottle and in conversation. He made his way through beautifully appointed corridors (Bethany's doing, no doubt) and past lovingly arranged bits of flora (Bethany's doing, no doubt). When Philo finally made his way into his favorite haunt--the lights low, the ambrosia plentiful--he was glad to see his friend manning the bar.

"Hello, Bethany," he said with a smile, not as forced as it could have been, and sidled up to take a seat. "You're looking lovely as always. Where's your staff? You are entirely too beautiful to have to deal with these ruffians."