Emmeline gauged his reaction. "...Better. But you hyper focused on the script too much. Shows your trying to dodge it." This was a game to her, one that she often played randomly, and over people's heads. They didn't often follow what she was getting at, but they'd squirm, because she couldn't be talking about<span style="font-style: italic">that</span>... could she? And the squirming? Well that was half the fun.<br/><br/>She continued on, blithe and airy, "No, no pizza. I figured we could wait 'till the rangoon. Build ourselves an appetite with all this<span style="font-style: italic">practice</span>." The more the day went on, the more disenchanted she became with the idea of going back to those classes. And maybe she wouldn't, which meant she could get up and leave right now, scotch free. But she couldn't risk it. Vincent had the final say, and something told her he wasn't going to let her back out of their deal so easily.<br/><br/>But the deal was to attend, not to<span style="font-style: italic">try</span>.<br/><br/>She leaned back in her chair, eyes skimming the living room walls and mantels for tell-tail family pictures. "What's your parents do for work? Travel?"