[OA stiffens noticeably; it's all she can do to resist pulling sharply away from the arm hooked through hers. She can't stop the tremulous, shuddering inhalation, though, and squeezes her eyes shut against the lurch of panic -- frustration, anger, strange relief; all the complicated things that well up in her in response to unsolicited, unexpected touch.

She lets that breath out slowly before she opens her eyes again, steadying herself, trying to stop the reeling.]

I don't-- um, I don't like-- being touched.

[Her voice is tense, the words coming in clipped bursts. It's not quite true that she doesn't like being touched, but that concept is simpler to relay than the reality of the situation. Her free hand comes up all the same to rest lightly on the arm slung through hers, lingering a moment before falling away again. A show of acceptance, of forgiveness. She can't blame new arrivals for wanting to cling to someone.]

It's okay.

[You don't have to let go is what she means, much as she'd prefer that. If she can offer comfort, she's willing to try.]

Sorry. I, um, I don't. Know who they were, exactly. Or shop.

[She shakes her head, flustered and out of sorts, far less eloquent than she usually is. It occurs to her only belatedly that she should probably be insulted by the implicit commentary on her manner of dress, that that may in fact be the intention behind the words, but it's neither incorrect nor something about which she can actually muster much concern.]

But I do a lot of walking in the city, so I might be able to help you get where you need to go.