"We were just talking about that," Hasibe provides, turning in toward Mitchell -- she sits close, hip-to-hip, though the touch is light. She always holds herself with a bit of leftover dancer's poise, as though her spine is straight because she doesn't know how to have it any other way, though that illusion is dispelled if she ever gets a chance to actually sprawl like a cat over something or someone.

Probably not an event destined to happen in this club. (One assumes.)