Swivel. Once all the way around and then stop. To stare at the silver-framed picture sitting on her desk. A picture of her with her arms wrapped around the waist of a laughing, blonde woman with blue eyes who she didn't know. She was laughing in the picture, too. It didn't look like it was old or faded with time so it couldn't be a memento to someone long dead, and even if it was then she should still feel something other than the vaguest twinges of recognition when she saw her. Swivel. Lauren had been trying to work her way through the puzzle that was this woman's picture for a good part of the day, and finally, she'd decided that she must be Nysa. Nysa was the woman whose texts she had filling up her phone. Oh, not just texts from her -- although there were those and they didn't seem exactly pleasant lately, it looked like they'd had a fight -- but texts sent to her and between her and other people. Like a Gia and especially an Emilia. There are more texts between her and Emilia than there are us! I think I should be bothered by that. But she wasn't. She wasn't really bothered by anything today, not even the fact that she didn't have anything to do. She was just giving thought to texting Nysa herself when her phone went off. Museum/ This was the advantage of being what she was, she could have the phone directory wired in and always know who was calling unless they were smarter than her.
Lauren hadn't ever met anyone she thought was that smart.
Nysa was put on the backburner when she was presented with a chance to go and fix whatever might be wrong with a library at a museum. This was why Lauren had put out a freelance ad in the phonebook, so she had things to do when nothing else was going on. Whistling the theme from Grey's Anatomy, Lauren locked up her office and headed off. (And on the way she may have decided to text Nysa anyway, just to get the thought out of her head.) Grabbing her bag when she got out of the car, Lauren wasn't surprised to find someone waiting outside for her. People could get really uncomfortable when their technology wasn't working and they couldn't fix it, they usually wanted it fixed ten minutes ago. "Yep, I'm Lauren. And you are so Irish." Lauren stepped up, offering her hand to the redhead, business card tucked neatly into the palm. "Lauren Spicer. What seems to be the problem?" So long as you didn't spill booze on your motherboard, I can fix it.