"Yeah, I have no idea where the fuck Cypremort is," Hannah said, shaking her head. "Maybe if you gave it to me in terms of distance and compass direction from New Orleans I might be able to picture it better, but for right now I'm just going to go with the mental image of a couple of houses built on top of a swamp. That's like ninety percent of what Louisiana is anyway, right?" She took a drink of her water, setting the bottle within reach where she wouldn't have to go fumbling for it when she wanted it again. She made it look casual, but it was really a move she'd had to practice a number of times so that she could confidently reach for a bottle, can, or glass without knocking it over.
Well, halle-fucking-lujah, she thought, when he finally made his conversational contribution. He can converse.
"I'm from San Francisco," she said. "Not Frisco, if you were of a mind to abbreviate it that way. There is a real Frisco, it's in Texas, and it's probably shitty. San Fran if you have to. Home of the gays and the vegan hipster revolution. If you ever get an urge to punch someone pretentious in the face, head out there. You can't swing a cat without hitting some hemp-wearing, share-house pothead. It's almost as bad as Portland."