[ he turns back to his glass and lets his lips curl faintly, slowly in a small, small smile. that sigh, that pause, that quiet, quiet voice:
it's the makings of a wound, albeit a small one, opening in the tender meat of this man's mind -- and piter adores it. he is so very pleased with himself, with the knowledge that he can still wield words as weapons. ]
I shall have to take your word for it, hm? [ he pauses, staring down into his drink -- wanting to make some comment about this woman, surik, but thinking better of it. best not to push -- not now. ] How long did you train to be such an immaculate pilot?
[ and the thought of space travel brings suddenly and violently to mind spice -- thick and sweet on his tongue even in its absence, that deadly, deadly absence -- but he pushes the thought from his mind as best he can. ]