Re: Diner: 1AM-ish
Shiloh hadn't grown up blessing anyone's heart. Mother hadn't been that type of South. In fact, Mother had worked harder at ensuring they didn't sound southern than she had at anything else. Even the slow-deb accent of the upperclass south, Mother said, made the wrong impression on people. Shiloh had learned early on that impressions were everything, and he'd twisted that lesson until it worked for him. "But perhaps remain out here. The summers are terribly warm out where I'm from," he said, polite and nonchalant and that scythe-smile marring his cheek on one side.
He pushed what remained of the hashbrowns away. Diner food would never become his preference. Neither would Juuls, for that matter. He preferred joints or pipes, and he wondered what had become of the wooden one he'd acquired along the way to Repose.
"Is what a problem?" he asked, idle curiosity and a tap at the tabletop with long fingers that had learned piano early and spread themselves wide. "Your running? No, why would it be? Or are you asking if I run? I prefer not to," he said with his usual candor. "You've become defensive somewhere between hashbrown bite number one and the next. I wonder why." His tone, again, was casual. Merely a conversation, and it was nothing to get worked up over.