Who: Sato and Psyche What: Light business chatting over lunch When: Wednesday at 12:00 Where: Masque, Sato's new restaurant
If Psyche felt a certain quickening of her pulse, a certain dryness in her throat, she did not show it. Moreover, she would not acknowledge it. She was mistress of her own self; her body had no right to turn on her like this. She was determined to be calm. She was determined life should continue as usual—until it inevitably could not, at least. How dare her body give in to irritating acts of anxiety. She did not give it leave to do so!
So she stood painfully close to the mirror, hands resting on the sink, listening idly to the sound of the faucet running (running water was ever a soothing sound), scrutinizing every inch of her expression until it was, she felt, neutral. Her eyes were friendly, interested. They were not as warm and affectionate as they usually were, but they were not the eyes of one who had steeled up every reserve of determination within her soul. Really, she couldn’t ask for anything more. When she was at length satisfied that she had mastered herself as much as possible—when she felt she could smile at even Wrath herself—she gathered her purse and left her office.
Masque had, thankfully, enough of a grand opening that it was easy to find directions; for a while, at least, she could sit in the backseat of her car, an anonymous traveler in the city, and focus on nothing more than the blurred scenes her window revealed. There was the ever-present gyro stand on the corner of the park; nearby, a little girl bounced up and down delightedly as a street performer gave her a balloon. Psyche smiled to herself.
And when her driver stopped, Psyche had the patience and the peace of mind to stop and glance admirably at the restaurant. She walked calmly and leisurely up to the front door, smiling at the seating hostess, explaining in a hasty whisper that she was meeting someone.
When that someone would arrive, they would notice a petite brunette waiting very patiently and very politely.