Caleb chuckles again; he laughs pretty easily, but it's still a conversational pleasure to find someone whose sense of humor jibes neatly with his; it tends to be spare, dry, and frequently at least a little on the tenebrous side. "That's like asking how I feel about a nicely rounded asset," that's right, asset, "no safe answer. It's the 21st century, and worrying might indicate I think you're somehow less than two hundred percent capable; that way lies a vicious beating from the specter of Andrea Dworkin."
That's ...a reference to pull out of your hat, Caleb. "On the other hand, I mean--shit, I'd worry about me too, out there. Anyway," his eyeline goes back to the CD she's holding; even talking about what floats around in the nighttime feels like inviting it. "Replacing an old favorite there, or trying something new? I'm always on the lookout for someone's copy of the Black Album to show up, personally, but Joe Strummer--like the name says, cat could play."