Re: Third class, dining.
The mime knew her snarl was a failure, and it made her want to pull that terrible black hair out by the fistfuls. That would show whoever had decided that she needed to be sad. She would be sad and bald and waving fistfuls of hair at people. It was better than pulling a wilting flower from her pocket, which she somehow knew was part of the gag. She was patting her pockets in search of offensive florals when the grotesquely glorious female frowned. Instinctively, she covered her mouth with one gloved hand, and she pointed at the other woman's face, and she laughed and laughed. Silent laughter, bent over and belly holding. There was hate in her eyes, because she didn't want to laugh, dammit, but laugh she did. She laughed until she cried.
And that was the absolute last straw.
She stood and she stomped her soaked black tennis shoes in the thin layer of sea salt. Splash, and the water sparked and jumped and spit all over the woman and her pretty nails.
Again, the little mime pointed, and this time the glee was entirely genuine. She always liked when bad things happened to other people. She splashed again, deliberately this time. Splaaaaaash. Even the tiny little sad lines couldn't keep the joy from her porcelain painted features.
She tugged on the elastic suspenders smugly. The fur wouldn't go, huh? That showed her! She glanced toward where the drinking was. She didn't need any man to say she looked good, drunk or not. Who needed men? Not the sad little mime.
But that gave her an idea. (Le Bingo!)
She stepped behind the damp beauty, and she shoved hands at the small of her back. She puuuuuushed her in the direction of the drinking men. Maybe they could trick one. Wouldn't that be fun?