She looked up at the sound of her name -- except for the little fact that it was not her name. My name is Persephone. It was strange, this pseudo-crisis of identity that was going on in her head, a sort of struggle between two existences, neither distinct from the other, truly, but rather parts of her. "Yes." She smiled at him, a gesture so natural it warmed her heart. She felt her heart leap as her eyes met his, those blue eyes bringing forth images she fought to set aside. Not now. Not the fields and flowers and walking hand-in-hand. No. Not now.
"And you must be Mr. Cudahy," she said, rising from her seat and extending her hand. "Lovely to meet you."