Re: Third class, dining. I can't, the sad-not-angry mime mouthed. She couldn't ask. Asking was not something on the list of things that could happen on this nightmare of a cruise. Yelling wasn't something that could happen either, and she missed yelling. Why, she would have yelled her head off just then, if she'd been able to. It would have been the yell to end all yells.
She smacked a hand against her own throat. No work. The knockout wasn't very bright, she decided.
Splosh. The mime sat down on the floor in front of the bag, her bottom landing in the layer of salty water that swished and sloshed on the floor of the dining room. She didn't care about the water, because there was no way she was keeping these pants after this. They could get as briny as they wanted to, for all she cared, as long as nothing scaly started nibbling on her behind. She spread her legs, her crooked knees on either side of the big bag, and her black tennis shoes tapping a splishity splash beat in the water.
She reached into the bag with her white gloves, and she began pulling things out. Look. Toss. Look. Toss. Something got a look of disgust, and that got tossed over her shoulder, where it bounced against a nearby wall.
She pulled out the liner and held it up theatrically, as if a light were meant to shine down from above and illuminate it. But there wasn't a light, and how was she supposed to work in these conditions? She sighed, and she fished out a mirror and placed it in the hideously pretty woman's hand.
Stay. Good. There. Yes. Perfect. Don't move.
She dragged the liner in a straight and severe line from the corner of her mouth outward, and then she made the line thicker.