"Dreams and consciousness." Was her particular genre, or subject which interested her; was her chiffon response, her snapping cue to pick her head up again. Lying it down made things dim. As a teenager, she had leaned into the topic of dreams, peeked over the shoulder of consciousness, naturally as a way to understand her sleep walking. Funny, how Lucy had had the same tendency. Should she tell him that? Maybe. She also noticed a similar theme, then, between all the roles she'd ever played... they ended up dead.
"But I enjoy anything beautifully written. Especially poetry. Charles Baudelaire is my favorite poet." She put both her hands over her heart as if it might show too much as she said: "The things he could put into words unbraid the soul..."
Was it obvious yet that she was a trifle idealistic?
"Are you from far away?" She'd asked, of course noting the accent. It made everything he said sound official. Serious. The mug of tea was scooted back over toward her, and inevitably picked up. She placed it in front of her and stared down into its contents. Ridiculously wishing it were rock road ice cream. She had to drink this tea or else she was going to have an upset stomach the whole time they spoke.