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Oh shit.

Did she think he-

R.J. sprang straight back when it fully dawned on him how this must have looked to her, when he saw how red her face was, nearly toppling over on his ass as he landed on his heels. His face was just as red as hers about now. Reestablishing his footing, he proceeded to nervously scratch the back of his neck, his eyes wandering over every part of the landscape that wasn't Mary-Ann at the moment. He had to clear this up. He didn't want to die with her last memory of him being him skeeving on her. He couldn't just say anything, though, so he had to think. What would Marcel Marceau do in this situation?

Mime. Duh.

Perking up visibly, R.J. raised a finger in the air, generally a signal that he had an idea. He glanced at Mary-Ann, then down, suggesting that she look thataway, then put his hands on his own hips. Genius, right? He adjusted his stance, putting his right foot forward, paused, remembered once more that she wasn't left-handed, moved it back, brought his left foot forward, put his arms into position, and held his stance long enough for her to get a good look before standing at ease and motioning for her to try it.

He was still blushing, though.
<Mimi>: You are much nicer than I thought you'd be!
<Stark>: Shut up, fatty.
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They're Made Out Of Meat · The Felled Forest: North