"It's hard to listen to soft ballads while running, yeah," he quipped, because if he was going to run (Tamara had been into running, and he had been into sleeping aka watching her leave at the ass-crack of dawn to train for marathons aka plot to kill him aka fuck her lover on the side) he preferred it to be to something upbeat as accompaniment. Oh, right, the mixer. Sheepishly, Neal grabbed the beaters and stuck them in (at least he did that before plugging the device in and turning it on, as he didn't want to end up without a hand like his pseudo-dad), going to work on the butter-sugar-add-the-eggs-concoction.
But he'd been all over the place, really. And had a lot of opinions on music and the like. "Portland's a good place for music too," he shared. The city itself held a lot of bittersweet memories for him, for various reasons. "I'm originally from...actually, you know what, we don't have to talk about that because I've already killed everyone's idealism when it comes to fairytales so I don't have to do it again. Tell me more about...Russia?"