<div class="floatleft">(http://blog.chosenmodels.com/wp-content/uploads/2013/01/DSC00812.jpg)</div><strong>Name:</strong>Damon Millican<br/><strong>Location:</strong>Parker Commons 104, Parker Commons lobby<br/><strong>Tagging:</strong>Martina, Open<br/><strong>Content:</strong>Getting dressed and leaving the apartment<br/><strong>Wearing:</strong>This assortment of clothes, once he's dressed. (http://www.polyvore.com/cgi/set?id=147482125)<br/><br/><hr/><br/>His day planning complete, sans names, Damon rushed to get ready. No one wanted to have lunch in public with someone wearing a bathrobe and boxers, after all. At least he'd showered the night before and fell asleep clean, so that was one task that could be mostly eliminated. He still freshened up his face with a quick wash and shave, styled his hair a little bit, and of course rubbed on some antiperspirant and spritzed on some cologne; even if he didn't recognise himself, he still didn't leave the house looking or smelling like a hobo. Off to his... Admittedly limited wardrobe, which was mostly jeans and graphic tees in various colours, a few black tank tops, and half a rainbow's worth of hoodies and socks. It all fit him nicely, but it was on the whole rather unremarkable. He pulled out a red hoodie, black tank, plain navy blue jeans, and monochrome patterned socks, completing the look with a simple watch and black laced-up boots. Overall, not bad. Not going to land him in any fashion mags, but presentable for lunch.<br/><br/>As he left his room, he gave himself a quick once-over in the mirror. '<em>Eh, good enough.<em>'</em></em>he told himself, before gathering the various things he took with him on a daily basis. Change of clothes in his bag from yesterday was still fine, if a touch wrinkled; cologne that had wound up at the bottom of his clothes hadn't leaked; bottles of medicine were still sealed tight; notes for next week were a total mess as always; keys were in the side pocket on the key ring therein, nestled next to his headphones; and finally, his planner and lifeblood made its way into its usual spot in the outer pocket. He slung the stuffed bag over his shoulder, and quickly checked the time on his phone. It was just before 10, so he fired off a quick text to Jason:<br/><br/><div align="center"><strong><span class="bbc_u">Hey, just checking up on you. Had a good night? Did you get home safely?</span></strong></div><br/>He crammed his phone into the pocket of his hoodie and left his apartment, locking the door securely behind him... Then double-checking that he'd actually locked the door, as he had somehow forgotten to do so multiple times, to Maggie's annoyance. It was sometimes surprising even to him that he could be so scatterbrained, what with all the planning he did before just leaving the house every morning. He checked the lock a third time before leaving the door and heading down to the common area. It was fairly quiet in his building, from what he'd heard so far; Antonio didn't seem to be awake just yet, or perhaps hadn't come home the night before, and other than some very muffled footsteps and quiet voices his upstairs neighbour didn't seem to be terribly active. As he descended the stairs, he heard an unfamiliar voice, although he only caught the last few words the mystery woman had spoken.<br/><br/>Damon watched her for a moment, his lips pursed, trying to figure out if he was maybe simply forgetting her voice, but he pushed the thought away; it was very unlike him to forget a voice once he'd met the person, and he was sure he'd never met this woman. '<em>New tenant?</em>' he wondered to himself, crossing the room to the bulletin board; he made a small habit of checking it whenever he came and went, even if most of what was posted didn't interest him. He scanned it almost too quickly; having checked it just under 15 hours ago, he was pretty sure nothing new had been posted. It was only when his peripheral vision caught "Little Sicily" on a flyer that he even noticed it was new. It announced the grand opening that morning (which was already in his planner and phone, so nothing new there), the location (likewise), and the owner and head chef's name: Martina Ricci. Nice to at least have a first name to go with, but given that the flyer definitely wasn't here last night when he'd returned from swimming...<br/><br/>"<strong>You just put this up, no?</strong>" Damon asked out loud, his finger tapping the poster. It was the first thing he'd actually said since coming down the stairs, and his voice was quiet but confident as he continued, "<strong>So... You either work at the restaurant, or the owner hired you to promote it. If I had to guess which was most likely...</strong>" Damon's voice trailed off as he turned to look at her properly. He tilted his head back and forth a few times quickly, and snapped his fingers loudly, the way one does when one arrives at an appropriately snappy decision. "<strong>You're Martina Ricci, correct?</strong>" he asked, although it was really more of a statement than anything else. If she had tried to introduce herself before this, Damon had missed it in his thought haze, and would likely sound air-headed; not that that would have mattered to him.