[Reaction]
[Eames didn't have a particular preference in underwear. For all the fascination with clothing and its ability to influence perception without actually doing much of anything to alter appearance, save choose a particularly loud or muted tie - he didn't care nearly so much when the outward layer stripped off. Oh, a good suit gave a man all manner of qualities but when it came to the underneath he wasn't fussy. He didn't think cheap was ghastly, it was just that: cheap. Occasionally cheerful and occasionally dreary but he didn't consider the corset in the memory likely to be luxury.
It wasn't cheerful, either. He observed the depression in the memory like a sinkhole in the middle of the road, with careful caution about tumbling in. The memory might have swallowed him whole but Eames knew who he was with precise understanding of what he wasn't and he wasn't depressive. He didn't claim because he didn't think he needed to. What belonged to him did so whether he made articulated statements about it or not, but for somebody with a little less deliberation, it was probably beneficial. He wasn't whooping like a talk-show host, 'own it, girl', but he did not disapprove.
The observed effect on people was within Eames' wheelhouse. He understood that and he sank into that part of the memory with at least passing familiarity. It was not an experience he added to the legend of history that belonged to the blonde, he carved off the memory once it was done from anything other than his, Eames' realm of knowledge. It was ruthless evisceration. The blonde was confident. She did not doubt and she was not depressed. The girl in the memory, woman perhaps but she lacked conviction, was.
He smoked a cigarette on the outward porch and wondered over dreaming. The appointments had all been cancelled but he wondered if tonight was a night he would dream without chemistry.]