While she was through to almost done with her sweet benediction sip of the dead baby cow half and mocha-something-or-other drink, he nudged his mighty Americano down the pathway to between her wrist in invitation, with the muffled resounding of the siren tea party cup skimming along the make-believe riverwood. Because hello, she didn't readily appear to have any kind of nasty mouth disease or even the flu. He fucking hated the flu. What immortal in a meatbag wouldn't? And by the mention of Olympus and Zeus he wondered, what the fuck, where were all of his memories and shit? Those dreams he had lately... he was an entirely different person, different thoughts, actions, everything... being confused was becoming out-dated. He needed a solid belief.
"Try it." he'd suggested though distracted either by the fairy bells of her chiming laughter, or the electrically stimulating thought of bringing the gladiator matter back into the lion arena of myth. "You know, it's funny... you weren't here for the whole mirror fiasco, but we were all seeing someone else the whole week. I could give you my science project theory of blahblah-electricity-blahblah-hallucinations, but my homeboy Paul was, he was, you think I'm crazy when I say I thought I was Zeus or what? You think it's possible? Tell me straight."
He fanned toward himself as if accumulating the strength of wind to sail the hunger of her honesty. "Let me have it, hit me. I can take it. Crazy, yes or no."