She saw things (the curl of Rygel's hair, the folding curve of the napkin, the pajamas left under her pillow but sticking out one side) the way she did, the way a ship did. It didn't always translate. It wasn't about that (the words, the exact meaning, the exact following of her way of seeing things) but the spirit, the new perspective that meant something changed (he'd said, it was clear, something needed to change [it wasn't working how he wanted it to]). It did so, in some ways. "Hynerian women know who you are," Moya stated, "Human women do not." They didn't understand either, even with the words being said. It didn't make them feel special because they didn't know how special he was. Moya knew he was.
His question demanded a certain amount of her attention [human females she knew (statements about sexual preferences [current levels of satisfaction: query unresolved in numerous instants])]. Her hands slowed down, not quite pausing when Moya switched to customers (first regular, then sporadic, lastly one time only). Those were more challenging, but she looked for a pattern, not specific women. "No one who has stated such explicitly," Moya replied, "Some women come here in the evenings, especially Fridays, who seem to enjoy male attention. I don't know what they want or need. There are places in the city more designed for interested parties."