Being deaf had one advantage: Alejo knew how to read a face. He can see the storm on Torrie's face as clearly as if he's looking up at the sky growing gray. But he changes focus to his food, he selfishly gives in to his hunger and thanks about asking about Torrie's anger later- maybe never. She owes him nothing, he knows this.
"Art movement. Lots of woman with flowing hair, rosy cheeks, elegant. Beautiful, strong, a little sad sometimes. Ophelia, Proserpine. That sort of art," Alejo says, he glances her way and smiles, his soup almost gone now. "I'm saying you look like a heroine." He has to try twice to say the last work, signing it for a moment before finding the right tones and managing to get it out.