The young man looks up politely at her approach, his own expression grave but pleasant. There are two empty plates stacked neatly on the table in front of him, and two mostly empty pottery mugs, but the second person is nowhere in evidence. He spares one dark, neutral glance toward the bar before he answers. "I usually am. What kind of work?"
He's slight and soft-spoken, with a vaguely underfed look about him, but he meets that fierce gaze steadily, unflinching.