( the clatter isn't as bad as he thinks it is, as the vibrator hits the bar again, rolling slightly before coming to a neat little stop--or maybe it's just that his embarrassment is guarded behind the lip of his glass, swallowing down another loud mouthful of whiskey. normally he'd be happy to drown his sorrows in pitchers of beer, a bit of sake, cheaper things to sate a head that fills more with ghosts than with liquor; the fact that it's now one of the hired help that's acting like the toy burned her delicate touch makes him want to smash his glass into his palm just to feel cut by his own irritation. it's not her fault. she has better things to be doing, judging by that tray in her other hand; he eyes it once, as he sets down his glass.

the truth of the matter is, a part of him had hoped that someone eager might swipe up the thing and run. they would get better usage out of it than he would, and then maybe he could make a paltry excuse to the resort staff to delay his punishment: how can he complete a task without the tools to complete it with? but the thought of foisting the vibrator onto this girl--

there's a slow shake of his head, dismayed. )

Handle it? It wouldn't bother me. But I don't want you to get cursed instead.

( who knows if it works that way? maybe it's some kind of sick joke, like a cursed videotape that haunts anyone who comes to watch it next.

grimly, he reaches for his cigarette box, pilfering out one--before he holds it up, as though offering it out to the girl; he can't tell whether she's been forced into working here or not, but judging by the way that everyone he's met so far has been kidnapped to this stupid resort, he wouldn't be surprised.

with a flicker of his eyes down to the seat, and then back up to her again: )

If it gives you an excuse not to work so hard, you can say we're negotiating.