Dean's lips parted as if he were about to say something, but before he could she started talking about...St. Olaf? Minnesota? He wasn't exactly following the story, catching bits and pieces, his mind running on autopilot, much like it did with another talker he'd met recently. He caught enough to nod at the right times, and when she came to the end of her story, all he could think of saying was "Right. Wrong foot."
He actually sent up a "thank you" to what/whomever might be listening that the light changed, and while he knew he had planned on crossing the street, he wasn't sure that he wanted to cross it with her. She'd probably think that he wanted to continue the conversation, and there was something so familiar about her. The St. Olaf's too. Had they put down some demon? No, maybe it was that strange Christmas pair, the Anti-Santas.
"No, that was Michigan," he mumbled softly to himself, but no one was this damn chipper. Not unless they were high or were demonic or some fu...fudging demi-god type out to ruin the world. If she was one of the latter, then he'd have to end her. If she was high, well, he'd want to know where the hell she got her happy pills.
"Yeah, sounds like Ole Klingenbacher should have watched his step." He cringed a little inside; he was actually going to continue the conversation. He had to find out why everything seemed so familiar.