<div class="floatleft">(https://i.pinimg.com/564x/64/a1/eb/64a1ebbbcf4fdbd74d30ee3e374e3270.jpg)</div>"I think badminton might be a little lopsided with three of us," Celine teased Finn lightly, then modified her response: "Though I'm bad enough at things like that, it might work out. I know the Carter lounge," she continued with a nod to Marcus.  "I went to a mixer there a few years ago."  She didn't think it was necessary, especially with these two, to mention it had been an LGBT+ mixer. Or that it was where she had first met her now ex-.<br/><br/>"Have they started allowing alcohol there?  They didn't when I was an undergrad. It'll be kind of quiet, if not."  Which...might not be such a bad thing. And she had papers to grade and a fuckton of reading of her own to do. No reason not to do it in agreeable company. Slowly, she nodded. "Sounds good. Friday's a light day after my office hours.  Say, five thirty?  I can grab some pizza."  Plans made, they settled up, and parted on an awkwardly friendly note.<br/><br/><hr/><br/>Which did not explain why, at four forty-five on Friday, Celine was far more focused on her outfit and makeup than she was on the work she need to bring with her. The make-up, at least, should have been simple; she never wore much and when she bothered at all, it was pretty simple. this time, though, she agonized over matching the tiny bit of blush she was going to use with...her underwear, of all bloody silly things.  Was she<strong>seriously</strong>considering a threesome with a couple of undergrads? Whom she barely knew?  Or did she just not want to look like somebody's aging advisor at a party?<br/><br/>Was she really going to a<em>party</em>with a couple of undergrads? What the hell was going on in her head?<br/><br/>Clothes, mostly. She finally settled on a slightly longer skirt (https://i.pinimg.com/564x/32/fd/de/32fdde1811c7866f83fb53fec2880f3d.jpg)  than she would have worn if she'd been going out with a few GFs her own age, but one that still fit fairly snugly across her slender hips and lamentably flat ass. Selecting a top was another challenge, so she went the easy route and donned a fancy sequined tank top (https://i.pinimg.com/564x/a5/1c/d5/a51cd59b1b4044ca402a24a7d90f656d.jpg). Which she tried both with and without a bra, finally deciding that the glitter from the sequins did enough to hide any other motion if she went without, small as she was up there. Heels, of course. Strappies. Because every professional woman MUST wear heels, according to the conventional wisdom that she loathed. At least they improved the line of her rump a bit.<br/><br/><em>Oh my GOD. Am I really worried about that?  What am I, seventeen again?</em><br/><br/>She did, finally, get herself out the door, books, flat chest and butt, and all. Only about ten minutes late if she was going to be there at the stroke of five thirty. At least she'd had the sense to order the food ahead: two pizzas, one veggie one half meat, with garlic knots and a few other whatnots. Of course, now she had to carry all the crap the three blocks that separated campus from her fave takeout place.<br/><br/>At least, she thought, as the elevator door finally dinged open on the Commons floor at Carter, she was making an entrance. Of a sort.