<span style="font-weight: bold">Christina Rumbletum</span><br/><br/>“Oh,” Christina says, softly. “Okay. Okay. That’s okay.” She pauses. “Be safe, you know,” she continues. “I hope we<span style="font-style: italic">can</span>do it some other day.” You can almost here her smile. “<span style="font-style: italic">I’m</span>not so glad I overate. What if I throw up a half-digested stockboy tonight. You know, I don’t have anyone at home to help me clean that kind of thing up,” she continues, with a half-embarrassed laugh. “Ah… why don’t you give me a call, once your meeting with Ms Belweather’s over. My VoIP handle is, um,<span style="font-style: italic">veryhungrygamergrrl69</span>,” she says in an embarrassed rush. “You could make a beer run and swing by,” she finishes. “If you want to.”