Rasmus still wouldn't try to pronounce it. English was hard enough as it was without throwing in ridiculous names that sounded like they came out of a Tolkien novel. He did the best he could, but names had never been his specialty. He could hardly remember them half of the time. (It was a miracle that he could remember his own!) Repetition was the key to memory where Rasmus was concerned. And even then it was never a guarantee that he would remember something. And if he did remember a name it was usually his initial misinterpretation (or mispronunciation) of it.
So she was probably Parsley for life.
"What now? Is that a jab? I'll have you know I was very pretty once upon a time. In fact, I was so pretty that they once sold cards with my image on them. Like baseball players only much more sophisticated. So pretty you might have even said I was handsome," Rasmus said, his voice suddenly a little haughtier than it had been when he was dying on the sidewalk. "But then I decided that being pretty was overrated. Which everyone should accept, mind you. Much better to be smart and useful than pretty. Unless you're a supermodel. Then I guess you should be pretty, too. But that's like, what, 0.001% of the population? As for my purpose, well, that I cannot tell you. Not just because I don't know you. Which I don't. But because it's a secret. And one should not go telling secrets to strangers. Especially not to people who write things down in little files and then hide them from you. You also shouldn't get in cars with strangers. Unless that stranger works on a street corner and you've hired them for the evening. Then I suppose you could get in their car or vice versa. Or if that stranger drives the bus. Then it's safe to get in the bus."
He twitched his nose.
"Usually."
Rasmus leaned over to catch a glimpse of the file that Carol — she of the venomous glare — handed over to Peisinoê. Rasmus scrunched up his face at the receptionist like a cat backed into a corner. All that was missing was the hiss. Clearly she was still angry at him for taking up two hours of Dr. O'Neill's time last year when he thought he contracted smallpox from some undercooked meat at Vale Diner.
It had been a legitimate concern.
Rasmus was very still when Peisinoê listened to his heart and lungs. He was a master of that aspect of being a patient. The cold surface of the stethoscope didn't even bother him. Then again, cold rarely bothered him at all.
"Only on Tuesdays."
He paused.
"I did have two pizzas and a box of Kraft macaroni and cheese for dinner last night. Well, maybe it was an early breakfast. I woke up at three this morning and I was starving."