<div class="floatleft">(https://i.imgur.com/Dbp7l9m.jpg)</div><strong>Name:</strong>Lakresha Price<br/><strong>Location:</strong>Cabin, then walking to the bow<br/><strong>Date &amp; Time:</strong>11:30<br/><strong>Content/Mood:</strong>Getting into the groove<br/><strong>Wearing:</strong>Striped two piece, crossbones durag, black cat's paw deck shoes, hoop earrings, hip fob<br/><strong>Tagging:</strong>Marissa, open<br/><hr/><br/>The jazz reminded her of late nights on college radio, the calm before the storm and the soulful afterglow post-signoff when they hit that button in the control room and Black Cat Crossing yielded the air. There was power in this music. There was a virus compelling her to work out those coffee jitters even as she stepped from the suite shower with her face in a towel. Bop, bop, with the water roaring it had been a muffled siren song, but out in the room it awaited her just as she'd left it. It didn't matter when you walked in on jazz, the music welcomed you back with a smoky warmth.<br/><br/>Pistols from the hip turned into shimmy turned into wet slide across the hardwood. Toes screwed in rhythm with the warbling trumpet toot, the in and out of musician's breath. A bright noon sea view, too vivid to translate to canvas, greeted her as she unloaded her swimsuits. Horizontal's slimming, vertical's slimming, so she stepped into bold diagonal in a two piece with the expensive stitching to contain her curves. Smooth, dark, trained voice joined the music.<br/>"Hmm hmm, mm-m-mmm."<br/><em>Thunk. </em>The lipstick footlocker unbolted, and it opened and unfolded into an arsenal. Bond Girl, no, Freckletone Nude, no, Blackcurrant, no, Screen Queen, no, Super Seventies,<em>yes, </em>with a touch of Beat Drop for interest.<br/>"Doo wop a deet-deet."<br/><br/>In front of the mirror with a spritz of detangler and comb she soldiered, stern-eyed.<em>Don't you dare, </em>she warned the little kink up top with brandished comb,<em>don't you dare. </em>Down from the crown she preened. Down over ears feeling nude without their hoops, no curls, no curls, and there with a flourish and a flip she let the curls roam free, go crazy down shoulders dimpled by bikini top.<br/>Darker, winking lashes. Come hither eyes, a surreptitious first impression in the making.<br/>"You do alright," she told herself. A turn, to regard herself from the side. "Yeah. Come get it."<br/><br/>There was no sense being the first one to arrive. Ms. Price tied the skull and crossbones over her hair, tried on her flirty deck shoes for the first time ever, and pushed buttons on the television until staff intervention would be needed to unlock it from a humming blue screen.<br/><em>Sigh. </em><br/>That was all she could stand of being alone. Lakresha stepped from her room, hopeful smile, and scanned the halls of her cozy little corner of the ship for someone to follow. Someone to tag along with, and have a little pre-party chat, before the real talk. It was difficult to tell where the voices were coming from. Adjoining rooms, or adjoining decks, too muffled to eavesdrop properly. Too claustrophobic to people watch. The jazz continued in her room without her as she set out, twirling her fob.<br/><br/>There was someone, walking. Out of uniform and dressed for a dip, or at least a lounge someplace wet, and that was a good sign.<br/>"Hey," she whispered. Stage whisper, suitable for consumption five doors down. "Want to check out the bar with me?"<br/>She was a white girl. Had a posture like she was willing to try this out, and that was a great place to start. An earnest place to start. Not in any special hurry to need to choose between<em>a) </em>drinking alone or<em>b) </em>stewing alone. Lakresha scampered to join.<br/>"Feels like walking around in a spaceship down here."