It was very, very subtle, the shock of even the briefest, faintest touch. The snipping of any battered strings begins simply just with that after all. The only intimation of it was the top of her bone-white hand cringing like atrophied piano intestines, the layer of hair that was once over her shoulder having fallen over her back, and the thing which only she could feel: the seize of her stomach. The shadow from the other world, visiting, never expected to be touched. Touch meant pain.
Her eyes avoided him as if they might tattle tale and traced the question, Crayons? The fringe lifted and scanned the diner, she knew speaking was unnecessary and seemed already adapted to it. There were crayons somewhere she'd seen, behind the counter? The ghost in the shell danse macabre'd toward them, reachable with one good flex.
Once she returned, she plopped the crayons onto his notepad. It was almost evident as she left back toward Freckles that she was curious, but she didn't inquire. She'd just peak the next time she pretended to give him coffee.