<div class="floatleft">(https://www.mediafire.com/convkey/51c9/cfifc9wq9nn40a46g.jpg)<br/><div align="center"><div class="spoiler_container"><div class="spoiler_header" onclick="hideSecond (this);" role="button">Circe</div><div class="spoiler_body"><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="bbc_font" style="font-family: times new roman;"><span class="bbc_size" style="font-size: 13pt;">● Portal traveler<br/>● Adopted by witches <br/>● sometime nasty nurse<br/>● uncertain witch experimenter<br/> </span></span></div></div></div></div></div><br/><span class="bbc_size" style="font-size: 11pt;">We’re in the midst of the big, the very big experiment.  One casts spells by ___________ and one brings a spell to a graceful end by ___________.  It makes sense to get answers.  Emmy (aka Mike) needs to calm to get and give some rational input.  The three of us figuring things out.  What about Chloe?  She’s a rock, so that’s good.  She also has the book to keep us company or vice versa.<br/><br/>A good experiment isolates one factor and studies its effect.  The real life problem that we’re encountering is that there are so many factors.  For one thing there’s three people—each has strong feelings about different things; might the strength of feeling have an impact on what happens?  Might two medium feelings add up to overcome one strong feeling?  Do feelings, ideas even matter?<br/><br/>Chloe has witch lineage and I have at least witch mothers.  What about Mike?  He’s the one the book found (I think that’s probably what happened).  There’s the book.  Loki?<br/><br/>Real life is impinging on figuring things out since it’s sent us to get pizza—thoughts of all things pizza deflect careful thought over all this.  What is wrong with pizza first?  One needn’t ask the question—it’s obvious—nothing is wrong with pizza first.<br/><br/>We get to the restaurant via car.  I think we could have walked but Emmy would have been convinced not in <strong>these</strong> shoes.  Maybe it’s good that we drove because we’ve got some standing/or sitting to do while waiting.  Chloe somehow thought that the reservation I gave away would still somehow be available.  Not so.<br/><br/>Once Emmy and Chloe are set (poised to take stools at the bar when they open), I wander through the crowd to speak with the hostess.  This not unexpectedly is walking the gauntlet.  Hands ‘accidently’ find their way to my ass as I keep moving.  Reaching the hostess stand, I’m told the bad news—the famous 45 minute wait which keeps one here and turns into upward recalculations as the first time estimate reduces.  So it looks like twice that 45.<br/><br/>“How do we get to the front of the wait line?”  The hostess gives me a <em>really</em> look.  “I’m in the business.  I know.  I know.  But my friend over there, the one in the white dress”  (I am not going to say he), “she had an emotional breakup today”  (I am not going to say that her body was ripped away) “and we’re working to keep her emotions even keel.  Pizza, ya know?”  (Not bad as an impromptu).<br/><br/>My pitch is swung at and I get a surprising comebacker: “Look, she’s cute.  Hot—maybe I’m feeling her emotion.  If you give me her number and, you know, put a word in for me, I’ll move you to the front.”  All sorts of questions come up, such as: am I pimping Emmy to get a table?  I decide not to answer that question since I’ve run out of yes for an answer and that’s the only one that would be truthful.  “I can do that.  Her name’s Emmy.  Thanks.”  I write down the number she’s asked for and hand it to her.  (Big question: does hostess text M before we leave?)    <br/><br/>I walk back to my two friends.  I take a route to avoid a suspected pincher and to walk past a hot red head, just to get close to her aura.<br/><br/>When I reach my two friends, “Good news.  We get the next table.”  And “More good news, the hostess thinks you’re hot Emmy, date material even.”   <br/><br/>Now for some further strategy.  “Chloe—it’s as expected, grab if you won’t get caught—five of those for me.  From here to the hostess stand and back.”  I look at Emmy: “If there’s one thing I know about the person formerly known as Mike, she does not go for guys.”  I look at Chloe, “If we keep Emmy between us, we can reach the table onslaught, pinch-free for the hottie known as Emmy.”  I offer a reassuring look, “No worries there.”    <br/><br/>I ask the two “Did you order drinks for us?”  I’m sort of interested to see what that’s entailed—an old Mike or new Emmy drink?  <br/><br/>Keep things normal.  That’s the strategy.  “So we’re your wing girls to get to the table.”  And a little chit-chat: “I love what you’ve done with your hair Emmy.  Up in a bun or braiding, those are cute looks too.”  I think her nipples are showing off and there appears to be no bulge where there had been one before.  Interesting.  (Confident smile that all is fine or will be; how can it not be?)   <br/></span>