"Alright, Tristan," she said, accent that said Oxbridge clearly evident, shaking his hand and taking her seat once more as he seated himself. She fought back images that came unbidden as their hands met, trying to focus on the present, on the things before her, on him. Come on, little Iacchus! No. No. This was now. He was Mr. Cudahy. He was Tristan.
"Thank you, and you, as well," she said. "So where are you from?" she inquired. Her first instinct said The States, possibly northeastern part, but part of her wanted to hear things from him, to know what he had been up to, to know more about him and who he had become.