“Hmph,” Flitched huffed, as if in heart-felt agreement with Crowe’s sentiment: ’Oh gods, the hormones.’ Though she acted as though she were in the same boat, she hadn’t had a remotely similar adolescence to what poor Clint was suffering through. And she frowned a little, thinking of it. Physiologically differences aside, when ‘Flitch’ had been the same age as Clint (by her people’s reckoning), she’d been a living ‘goddess,’ held captive by her worshipers…
She shook the memory away, and raised her eyebrows at Crowe’s question, “Oh-ho, customary! Aren’t we proper!” But she gave a shrug, and answered, “Can’t complain. Had a few good jobs lately, one or two that went a bit bad, what can’t win all the time.”
She paused to take a drink of her beer, then glanced up at Crowe. “By the way, Crowe,” she told him with an amused half smile, and tapped her upper lip, “y’got a bit of a beer moustache. If it’s of any interest to yeh.”