The kiss tingled at his cheek in the manner of a malaise, rather like the strange tickling in the cartilage of one's nose just before the surging-forth of a violent sneeze. By pressing his arms firmly and awkwardly to his sides after he reciprocated the hug, he suppressed the urge to reach at his cheek, to catch the kiss there, to bottle it and poke airholes in the jar lid, and place it on the mantel. He knew it was a cordial, "polite" kiss, like the kisses barons placed on their kings' ring fingers, but nonetheless, even that degree of intimacy, from the lips of the aloof and frigid Ona, sent him aback.

"[color=8d97bf]Leave it to me. See ya, Ona,[/color]" he said, though whether he meant work, planning that next visit, or cleaning up the paltry mess she had made of his glass and countertop, he did not say; perhaps any of them or all at once. Waving, he stood around and watched her go until she was out of sight. That was the politest thing he could do without chasing the car like an untrained dog.

When Jules took the lift back to his floor, and turned the doorknob, he realized he'd forgotten his keycard on the counter. So much for salvaging a peaceful evening. "[color=8d97bf]Shit. [i]Shi-it![/i][/color]" He slapped his forehead hard against the shimmering door, and just stood leaning into it for several long moments, his arms limp. He'd have to climb the fire escape.[hr][hr][center][i]The next morning...[/i][/center][hr][hr]