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*Meg is ~~brooding~~ ~~sulking~~ sitting in the bar looking quite reasonable. With coffee.*

*Meg glares up at him through the mask.

What do you know, it really is helpful.*

The Ghost looks down at her. Interesting. The only ballerinas he's ever met have all fainted within approximately three seconds of seeing him.

He lightly touches the mask she is wearing, and tilts his head questioningly. He may possibly be asking her where she found that.

I got it off of you, *Meg informs him. Inaccurately.

She is not with the happy.*

He may possibly be wearing a mocking smile. He gestures dramatically at the mask covering his own face, indicating that of course she didn't, silly girl.

He has very articulate gestures.

*He has articulate gestures. But Meg has attitude.*

Yes. In fact, I did.

That smile is now definitely mocking. The Ghost spreads his arms in an operatic gesture of unconcernedness. (Which is a word. Yes.)

Another swirl of red and black cloak, and there is a rose in his hand. It is very dark red, and he holds it out to Meg in a gloved hand, along with a letter (http://www.livejournal.com/users/_diseasedmind/277.html#comments).

The letter reads; To Mr. Seldom Bucket, the Opera House. The rose, his gesture implies, is for her.

*Meg staaaaaares at the rose. The letter she takes automatically; she is, after all, used to this form of delivery.*

- this isn't going to turn me into an evil bad-dream maniac, is it?

Although his expression does not change - masks don't tend to alter - he manages to convey a raised eyebrow. He swiftly takes hold of her hand, and gently places the rose in it. It completely fails to turn her into an evil bad-dream maniac.

*Meg looks down at her hand dubiously, and then back up at the ghost.*

Er. You may be getting confused.

I'm not Christine. Look. Blonde! Short! Totally not a soprano!

...If the Ghost was talking, he might say 'Neither is she', but he's incognito. Shhh.

The Ghost waves a hand airily. Also dramatically. I do not care, the gesture says. The flower is yours. What interest do I have in this Christine?

*Meg eyes him some more.*

You've not gone all amnesiac, have you?

*This, she implies, would be a thoroughly irritating thing.*

The Ghost does not make a dramatic gesture. He simply looks at her hard. The memory problem seems to be hers, it looks like he is thinking. This Ghost does not go 'all amnesiac'.

*Meg, meanwhile, has put two and two together, and alas come up with twenty-two rather than four.*

Oh, zut - you're from a bloody different time than me, aren't you. Bloody inferne.

The Ghost waits and listens. Well, he can't exactly say 'eh?', can he?

*Meg sighs, and hands the rose firmly back.*

I'm flattered and all, but I'm really not up for being stalked today. Maybe some other time? I'll try and work you into my schedule, how's that?

He takes the rose. There is a swirl of cloak, and the flower he is holding is merely a dead, dried stem. There is a faint scent, reminiscent of rose petals. He bows again, and steps away.

*Meg glares after him.*

And don't you try talking to me through the plumbing in the middle of the night! *she shouts after his departing form.*

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