Re: Sitting area; sofa
"They can be good for your skin." She reached out to touch one finger to the back of his hand (the one not holding the pen, of course - no reason to disrupt that instrument). "It depends on how the soaps are made." She didn't comment on PETA - like she had simply skipped over that part of his thought.
"Sometimes..." Another sigh, a shifting of her weight. Instead of forehead, now her chin rested on his shoulder as she looked at the napkins and tabletop. Her knees, drawn to the side as her feet remained tucked under her robe, rested against the top of his thigh. She was warm, though anywhere her damp braid touched earned a bit of a chill. She didn't speak as loudly once she shifted, her words near his ear. "Sometimes being trapped inside makes you lost outside. You know you should be able to find your way, but you can't." And it was a sort of madness, but she wasn't supposed to be about that. Not here. Not at this party. None of the true words were supposed to be true.
And truth - her truth, at least - was that all of those things could be used to hurt. Had been used to hurt at some point. Thoughts that were barely memories other than the sensation of bright pain. "They can be used in ignorance. Or malice."
She saw no other napkins or paper within reach, and the only other thing she could think of to write upon was skin. And though she kept moving closer to him, searching out that contact, skin seemed too forward to offer him. But she still looked at the tabletop with sadness in her eyes, her free hand (the one not tucked close in her lap) reaching out to run careful fingertips over the inked letters. "You'll have to leave them behind..." He was working so hard at them. She could feel the desperation lurking just beneath his skin in tremors of inspiration, and she didn't want him to lose all of that.