This is Jack's shot liver.

There were five and a half glasses in front of Atlas that were once filled with alcohol. He'd never been a heavy drinker, but there he was in this seedy, horrible, disgusting, overly populated pub. Draped half on and half off the counter, once in awhile reaching forward to arrange the glasses so that they were in a perfectly straight line. The one in the middle was half full. Or was it half empty? His fuzzed up brain couldn't tell anything otherwise.

Fifteen steps from the door to the bar, and a hop before he sat down to make it sixteen. It was a Sunday, after all.

His clothes were wrinkled. If he wasn't concentrating so hard on the objects in front of him, he would have had to do something about it. He slumped further down—no perfect posture here.

The ever-present smile was still there, if a bit hazy. Like he was smiling through a silk scarf. He wondered if they would yell at him for lying under the table.

Now it was time for the babe portion of the evening. But babe might have been exaggerating somewhat.

It was only little ol' Brenna.

She entered the bar with something of a hop-skip. She had just come from Doug. Or Thomas. Or Michael. Or Stephen. Whatever his name was. She couldn't really ever remember. Her veins were vibrating; however, and she just felt so good at this point.

Good and thirsty. Filled up. Her arm might sting later. It was bruising now.

She makes her way to the bar and sits.

Skirt goes up. She doesn't mind. It's some sort-of black leather number that even though it barely touched her knees, was slit a good four inches on both sides. Wide belt, striped, more of a sash around her thin waist, really, than a belt. It's red. Her top of some kind-of lace thing. Tank-top with matches her belt under black lace shirt. She had not paid attention to her wardrobe. But her jacket is there, ever conscious of that, she is.

Brenna waltzes to a stool and casts a bright if not lightly glazed eye across the mostly-if-not-all-the-way drunk beside her. He seemed occupied elsewhere.

In light of this, she extends her thin hand and scoops up the centre glass.

"Thanks."

She mumbles and studies the contents before knocking it back in one. Deliciously raw.

He dropped his head down. Thunked his forehead on the counter, that would hurt later. Smiled downwards and towards the newcomer.

Hello, limbs. Hello, short skirt.

With the way his head was positioned, he had just gotten quite the eyeful. Leg. Hello. He wanted to push it a little to the left, so that she was center in the chair. Or was it pull it to the left? Which side of her was he on again? The right side, not the wrong side, that worked well enough.

His head, on its own account, tilted to the side, intent on following her movements.

He saw her hand move—what was this? It was like looking at things under water and in slow motion and with extreme close up. He could practically see every pore, or at least he thought he could.

The smile straightened a little, but did not completely disappear.

He wasn't offended at her for taking the alcohol. No, he didn't feel like drinking it. Too much of the poison racing around his veins already—his blood was practically swimming in it.

However, she had just ruined his perfect symmetry. Without asking. She had also just disrespectfully added her germs to his glass (which he was quite certain he could see, these little blobby black things that swam around behind his retinas. Those germs, were they floating through the air? Quite strong, they were).

The smile took a feral feel to it.

"You're welcome."

He wasn't sure if she was.

She puts the glass back in his line. Extends a pinky. Puts it straight.

"What, no more?"

As if she quite expected him to continue buying her drinks. Maybe she does.

She titters out loud and drums her chewed fingernails on her chin.

"Have you seen the state of my car?"

Does he care? No. But she'll tell him anyway.

"It's a piece of shit."

She leans against the bar and giggles. Now he knows. The whole world ought to know, but she's far to lazy to tell them.

"That's a very sad thing to hear." He wondered how it was possible she could sit sideways like that, then realized that he was the one who was sideways and puzzled for the next couple of moments on how he could stop sitting sideways.

He straightened up.

That worked.

"I would never want to drive around in shit. I'd imagine it would be very uncomfortable." His alcohol befuddled brain decided to take things a little to literally than need be.

The glass was straight. That was good.

"I'm sure there's more." Referring to the alcohol. "Behind the bar—see? There's plenty. You just need to ask."

"Yeah's... it's damn pathetic. I guess I should be thankful, though, just having a car."

Her hands won't sit still. She extends her fingers and begins stacking his glasses. Right side up, endways up, right side up, endways up, right side up. Now she wants to knock them over, but she'll wait and se eif he won't do it for her.

"It's only uncomfortable if you go the speed limit."

So was life, she decided.

"Ask?"

What a strange idea. She furrows her brow at the row of bottles.

".. Two.. falixes.. fali.. falix.. yeah. One for me and he gets one for being a good sport."

Sports. She hates sports.

"I'm not good at sports," protested he. Watched her. Scowled with a smile, it was an odd sight. His eyebrows turned down, but his lips remained up. His eyes slitted (which did nothing but made him look as if he couldn't see anything) and lips remained tightly pressed together. A thin white bracket that fell on its back.

He reached over. Adjusted the glasses so that they were symmetrical. She could play her games, as long as she did it right.

"I failed the course which taught you that sweating was okay. They called it gym." Moved two glasses a little to the right, it made the bottles he saw between the glasses an even number.

Grabbed the odd one out. That wouldn't do. It disturbed the perfection.

Correction perfection.

He puzzled over the odd glass. What to do with this one?

He offered it to her. That was a good solution.

"Thank you." He said. Had she said those same words earlier? And was he thanking her for the drink or before she possibly took the glass? His voice was wary. Clipped. He didn't like how she was messing with his glasses.

"Neither am I."

She agrees.

"I think I ditched it. All the time. Maybe failed too, I guess."

She doesn't care. She watches him tear apart her straight line and frowns right back. A glass. She accepts. Turns. Puts it on a table behind her.

Poor rejected glass.

"Odd numbers suck."

She can't recall when she last used the word 'suck'. It sounded very high school freshman. She groans and runs her fingers through her hair. She has mixed a platinum blonde in with the brown. Almost white. There's no reason. Maybe.

"Anytime, slugger."

Where did that come from.

"Is your name Dominick?"

This is not a drill.

She takes the drink when it is offered to her (the other placed in front of her order-mate), sipping to see if it was done right. Dark rum, strawberry margarita, lemon. It is good. So she knocks the rest back.

He followed her example. Swung it back and—

—back and—

—caught the edge of the counter before he could go sprawling all over the ground in a drunken mess of grays and browns and tans.

"Dominick?" It was the first word that caught his confused attention (at the moment, his attention thought it was his unconscious, and trying to shut itself off), probably because it was the last word the girl said. He gave her a baffled look (his look, on the other hand, thought it was a tidal wave and was, at the moment, rolling from this end to that) and shook his head.

"I don't think so. Am I supposed to be?" He was quite sure he was Atlas. Kanavas. That rhymed, in an odd way, and this hit him like a lightning bolt might hit a frog trying to cross the street. Or a semi-truck hitting a tree on a stormy day. Or was it the other way around? Whatever, both worked.

"I think my name Altnavas." He paused, that was wrong. "Only I really don't think so. Atlas. Atlas, that's right. Atlas Kanavas." The word was losing its meaning to him, like so many words did when repeated. Like an old relic, faded with the sands of time! Or the sands of Egypt, whichever works.

"Odd numbers." The other words she said were making themselves known in his brain, now, a bit belatedly. "Odd numbers. Odd numbers. Let me tell you about odd numbers." He paused. What was he going to tell her?

"Odd numbers are like haystacks."

She watches. Glass down, just watching now.

There's no amusement on her face although somewhere, she thinks she might laugh at that later.

"Yeah... It's not? That's good."

She looks back at the counter.

"Altnavas..."

She tries it. Quite likely ignoring the elaboration he subsequently made.

"Haystacks? Like.. the yellow things? They itch like a *itch if they get in your shoes."

She can't recall the last time she even saw a haystack. Once when she was small. Or dreaming. Or just very trashed.

"Yes, haystacks. Those yellow things. They're odd. Like numbers." He didn't elaborate.

The mood he was in soured slightly. He moved the glasses so they were not perfect.

Why was he here again? He didn't normally drink.

Oh yeah. Boredom. Weird infection for someone like him to be afflicted with. He wasn't a bored kind of guy.

"You're young." A statement. An observation. Something he hadn't noticed before.

Maybe she wasn't young. Maybe he was old. Scary. Best think about that when you're not drunk and not apt to throw a fit, self.

"What's your name? And I suppose I'm glad to be Atlas. Or Altnavas. Whichever you prefer." Twenty questions, he could do that too. He didn't look at her, not too hard at least, not in his usual trying to read someone way—he didn't want to appear as a pervert.

He continued to smile. Hadn't stopped this entire time, but it was a small smile now. A thoughtful one, examining the glasses in front of him. He moved them again in an attempt to make an alcohol glass labyrinth with...five glasses again.

"Yeah. You too."

Shot back. She isn't certain both of if he is young or if she is angry with him for pointing it out.

"I have an I.D. so did get any ideas about trying to call my parents or curfew or some.. some shit like that."

She rubs the bridge of her nose and sighs.

"My name...? Brenna.. Brenna Sibelius Laila Jorgen. I go by Sibsy if you're really lazy."

Only one person calls her that.

"Altnavas rolls off the tongue... Atlas just makes me think of.. large.. half-clothed.. men... from Greece."

Or that was what the books said. Her eyes follow his hands.

"Odd number."

She observes. Or warns. She curls her arm and extends her own glass to the mix. Six. A nice, even number.

Six, now. No more haystacks.

He created a circle with them. A tight circle.

"Sibsy. I should call you Brenlius for the Altavas."

Brenlius sounded like a man's name.

"And I am Greek. Though fully clothed."

Perfectionism was wearing thin. The tornado-catastrophe was blowing in from the North. He ignored it. For now. Continued to try and perfect everything. Glasses a little to the right.

"I.D.? Parents?" He wasn't sure how those fit together. Frowned, grappled for the rest of the words. Caught them like one might catch a minnow. "Why would I do something like that?"

Blank smile. His smiles were never genuine, anyway.

"Go ahead, I really don't care."

Head on arm. Arm on counter. She blinks up at him.

"Well damn. I'll call you Atlas as soon as you get half-naked for me."

She sounds serious.

"I don't know. Because.. you're.. I don't know.. like that."

She sighs and rolls her neck, staring at the ceiling.

"Like what?" The only thing genuine about him was his curiosity.

Because I smile?

"In any account, your business is my business." He knit his eyebrows together. "Forgive me, that's wrong. Your business is not my business. What you do doesn't matter to me unless it concerns me." Made sense. Not quite clear, but made enough sense in his head.

He felt like a commercial. Waved the bartender over, asked for a glass of water. He wasn't keen on hangovers.

"I'll only get half-naked if I had a reason to." That was not intended to be an innuendo.

"..Like what?"

"Hell.. I don't know... older.. I guess. Want to make me make good decisions. Like that's ever possible."

She closes her eyes.

"Business? Ha..."

She shifts a little. Trying not to get stiff.

"What business? My life? Hell.. What do you want to know? I don't have any secrets."

She is mumbling, rambling, not really listening to what she was saying.

"Too bad."

Maybe she wanted him half naked.

"... Don't repeat yourself.. It.. It makes me think... I don't know."

She holds her head. Didn't know, feeling a little lost, the vibrating was fading from her veins and her skin was starting to hurt.

He frowned. Well, actually, he didn't, but his eyes did. The smile was still there.

"Older?" Thank you, would you kindly take a hit at my self-esteem, next? "I thought you said that I was young, too." I would prefer to be young.

"Your decisions don't concern me." They didn't.

He looked at her. Narrow look. Like an alley with too much junk littering the walls.

"Everyone has their secrets."

He shrugged. Let his eyes drop to the side. Picked up his water, wiped the condensation ring with his sleeve, sipped the water, put it back down again.

"I don't think it's too bad. I'd imagine it'd be kind of cold if I were to shed my shirt." It probably wouldn't be, with all the alcohol in his system. He was dressed for success—white shirt, candy cane scarf, and comfortable black pants. Nothing big, here.

"What are you like? Tell me a story."

"Old.. young... we all die someday."

She mumbles, closing her eyes.

"Yeah.. you'd like to know.."

She murmurs in muted response to the 'decisions' comment, feeling very tired now.

"Oh well... we can't all get what we want."

She lifts her head, but only to chaning position to the brown-and-blonde are facing Altas and her face the opposite way.

"A story? About me? Shit.... I need more parameters than that..."

She mumbles, shoulders rolling, delicate bones highlighted under her pale skin.

"You're talking from like kindergarten up..."

"Any story. An interesting story. A story about success or failure, they all end like that anyway." He toyed with the end of his scarf. Looked hazily at her, saw the way her bones moved beneath pale skin, wanted to reach out and touch and see how it worked but not even so much twitching a muscle.

He smiled.

"Tell me the story about why you look like you're coming down from the biggest high of the century." It wasn't meant to be offensive. "Tell me the story about Dominick. Tell me the story about why you feel the need to drink at such a young age. Of why you hate gym. Of anything, go on, go wild."

His gaze was intense. Behind the mask was perception and deception, you just had to look closely.

"Mmmm.."

And other such soft, thoughtful purring noises from not-too-deep within her throat. She seemed close to going asleep, but her arms shiver sometimes and she was frowning at the far wall.

"Just any story?"

She sounds as thoughtful as her purr.

"I'll tell you about... everything."

She shifts positions first, drawing her booted legs onto the stool beneath her, spine arching, skirt riding up, arms tensing briefly before she relaxes back against the bar.

"It starts in... graduation.. senior year in high school.."

She begins, delving into the sordid tale of lies, deceit, sex, drugs, trickery, and abandoment that built the summer and following college entrance, walled with close calls, near misses, and windowed with boiled-out love and vicious hate. Confusion, pain, torment, and suffering served for carpet with coping trying to battle the stains of jealousy. Sebastian the artist, Doug the dealer, and Andrei the boyfriend. It was almost poetic, the all-too-true dealings of day and sanity-neglects of night. She left nothing out, completely uncensored, uncut, and unfalsified.

Finally coming to a close, she turned and focused her eyes upward.

"So here I am... Doing mainline heroin to forget my pain, drinking to forget the heroin, and then repeating the process tomorrow night."

She looks at him, her eyes devoid of tears or very much emotion at all, despite the raw details pouring from her lip-sticked mouth.

"Great bedtime story, huh?"

He listened, quietly, at her tale, not losing his smile once. Ordering her water, keeping the alcohol away from her, perhaps not to keep her healthy but in curiosity, to see what she was like without all the drugs in her system, without all the alcohol in her blood, with a lucid personality and perception. It would be interesting to see if he could achieve that, getting her to clarity.

He listened, silently, until she finished her story with the closing sentence, then cocked his head to the side and pursed his lips together, the corners of his smile whitening slightly.

"Bedtime story...am I going to sleep?" No.

He digested all this new information, looked at her in a way that almost said he saw her as a human, but did he see anyone as a human? Or were they all just cogs to him? He had been fond of Plato, surprisingly, when he was in high school, only if it was because he was amusing.

People = cogs. Kings = philosophers. What a world, what a world.

He looked at her, for a moment, as if he were looking into her soul, reading what she had lay out on the table for him to absorb, rolling the words in his mind. He quirked an eyebrow.

"You've had an interesting summer. A hectic one." His smile widened, then, a friendly, gentle smile.

He didn't tell her, NO! That's WRONG!

He didn't chastise her.

He didn't look down on her.

He didn't think bad of her.

He just smiled.

She shifts at the order, rolling and straightening to be almost level, frowns at the water as if it could potentially be worse than the poison she was knocking back so casually ten minutes or a few months ago, however you looked at it. But deciding she was a trifle parched from all talking (nearly twenty-two steady minutes worth, and she had a habit of speaking fast and straightforward), she picked up the water and sipped it.

A light grimace.

"So... plain."

She murmurs, studying the glass.

"No smell, no oder, no real taste, no natural colouring, never a definitive temperature... It's damn lucky."

She set the glass down.

"You can't be prejudice against water."

Perhaps she isn't quite off the drugs yet.

"Go to sleep if you want, I'll spot you."

She looks away, puzzled by that offer. But she supposes it would be nice to know... she was used to watching people to ensure none of their activities landed them on the floor not breathing or something to that side-effect.

"Yeah, no shit..."

Another sip.

"I wouldn't trade it for the world... I won't..."

Weak shrug.

"Your turn. Amuse me."

"Water, hm. I've always been kind of fond of the stuff, considering how much of it I have in me. Lots of water, certainly."

He watched her, curiously. Sipped his own water. Amused that people were starting to leave now, it was late.

"I can't say I'm as interesting as you." He might be.

"I've loved only once." It was the truth. "Excluding, of course, myself." Not something he had trouble admitting, was he really so vain?

The answer was yes.

"I don't trust anyone. Not even myself."

No one should trust Atlas. The smile lied more than the vocal chords.

"A story. Hm."

He drummed his fingers against the counter.

"Once upon a time..." And then his own story began, a tale spoken through a smile, one of his home in Greece, of a family he left behind for a promise he found in America, of olives, of pain, a lot of pain, of a time when he never smiled, of so little, but with so many words—he knew how to cushion his stories without revealing too much about himself. His story was filled with anecdotes and parables, but neither revealed much about who he truly was, what the promise from America was, or anything else, really.

He completely left out about the only person he had ever loved.

His story took about forty minutes.

"Greece. I reccommend Greece." He looked wistful.

"So why add more?"

But she finishes the glass.

"Don't sell yourself short.... God.. my mom says that."

She closes her eyes tragically.

"Smoke. Now."

She doesn't usually announce it, but following the brief statment she plunge a hand into the lined depth of her jacket and removed a lighter and battered, once or twice before opened pack of her favourite brand. Pass from cardboard to lips, click, click, flare, smolder. She puts the pack down and then gently slides it into the centre of their shared space. Wordless offer.

The lighter she keeps a hold on.

"That's good."

On the matter of trust.

She was silent for the account. Passive, watching with half-mast lids. Summoning an ash tray with a swipe, she was careful not to exhale right at him, politely turning to the side but keep an ear open at all times.

Upon the final conclusion, she puts the cigarette out and looks faintly amused about the eye area.

"As soon as I move out, I'll get right on the Greece trip."

She is only being lightly sarcastic.

"I think you're more interesting than you let on.... but you're cryptic too, and it's annoying."

Maybe this is what she's like when not on drugs.

He accepted the cigarette. Maybe as an offering of friendship. Not trust, he didn't trust anyone. Held it between his fingers for a moment. Gracefully; he had smoked before.

"I don't sell myself anything." Amusement to his tones. "I'd imagine I would be a very picky customer." He was.

"You should certainly go to Greece. Wonderful place, really. The beaches are heaven there, you won't find anywhere else better. Not to mention, you can walk around naked without getting arrested."

He remembered, once, staying at a friend's house near the beach, and seeing people walk around naked. It was a horrifying sight, yes, but painfully entertaining.

He held his cigarette towards her. Towards the lighter.

"We all have our secrets."

"Now there's a tantalizing offer. I've always longed to walk around starkers before."

She doesn't sound entirely sarcastic. Far from it.

She leans over.

Flare. Perhaps the lighter liked him. After igniting the end if his cigarette, she pockets the lighter but leaves the pack.

"Sometimes it can be fun to share a secret.... a little thrill of confessing something you shouldn't. A relief too.. sometimes."

She furrows her brow and tugs carelessly on her hair.

"It's getting late... "

She murmurs, squinting at the battered, dirty clock behind the bar.

"How did you get here?"

"I flew."

That was a lie.

"Actually, I walked. It was a nice night, and I don't fancy driving drunk." He had almost said drunking drive, but caught himself before he bumble. "You?" He didn't want her to get hurt, while trying to make her way home.

Atlas was a gentlemen.

Surprisingly.

"And...secrets. Well." He shrugged. "I'm not a very open guy. And it's not so much I shouldn't talk about things, it's more like I don't feel like it. Much." He could share some things willingly.

Deep inhale. Stream of inky gray air. Repeat. His lungs were charred with each breath. Bad thoughts, bad thoughts. Seven years for them to heal after you quit. Seven years of bad luck if you break a mirror, or walk under a ladder.

He didn't respond to the naked comment. He had nothing to be ashamed of, but he wasn't keen on prancing around with his three piece set blowing in the wind. Not a comfortable thought.

"Drove. I shouldn't."

At least she was honest.

"That's fair enough. You have to go with your instinct... or.. I dunno.. something along those lines. I mean.. my dad say that... My dad's a fireman, you know... and I still smoke."

She laughs at the own hazards and stands. Wobbles. Stands.

"Nice talkin' to you, I think... There's an eighty percent chance I won't remember this conversation tomorrow.. so if you have anything important to say, write it down."

She puts her slender hand on the edge of the bar, locking her elbow to support her meagre weight.

Just to see if he would actually take her up on that.

He took a napkin.

Grabbed a pen from...nowhere. Probably a pocket. Maybe a sleeve, but the point is he had it in his hand. He pulled the napkin and, well...

Drew a huge smiley face on it.

He slid it over and stood, stretching out the kinks that had settled in from sitting for too long.

"I don't think you should drive." It was one of those sentences that didn't have a double meaning to it, despite the fact that it sounded like it should.

She takes it, eyes the image, smirks, and pockets. Apparently, there was no need to even question the purpose.

"Yeah. I know."

She ackowledges him with a half wave, fingers held together, almost a clipped salute.

"See ya."

Whenever.

She turns and walks out, fumbles on the door, moves rather unsteadily into the falseified definition of twilight invented by the City's nocturnal. Her car is bathed in the jaundiced light of a street lamp, aged, rusting by the fender, patchy on the inside and scrap-worthy all over.

She tries to unlock it, but the cool air has made her senses pull apart and she's having trouble getting the key into the insert.

He followed her, frowned (or rather, his eyes did, the smile was still there), put a hand on her shoulder to catch her attention.

"Would you like to go for a walk? It's a nice night out, tonight."

Maybe the walking would sober her up. Maybe during the walk he could convince her to take a taxi.

"We can tell each other stories."

He liked stories. Real or not, truth or lies.

"We can lie to each other."

He was exceptional at lying.

She glances back at him, nearly dropping her key.

"I... do you honestly think this is a safe place to walk?"

She slips the key into her pocket however, turning and leaning on her car while facing him.

"I'm out of stories, but I can lie with the best of them."

She smirks slowly before distractedly wiping a few beads of sweat from her forehead. Odd to be sweating outside. Even for wearing her leather jacket.

"Probably not. One of the safest places to walk, that is. But that's okay, I'll protect you if you protect me." A perfectly logical offer.

"And lying has always been one of my favorite pasttimes. Very fun hobby, you can think up the most interesting stories, you know." He wasn't a pathological liar, no, but it was sometimes fun to see what people would swallow.

"We could play a little game. Let's call it Truth or Lie—and we'll have to go back and forth, maybe. We can tell each other things, and the other has to guess if it's a truth or a lie."

He liked games, too.

"It's up to you. We could also walk in dead silence."

That was fine, he supposed.

"Fair enough."

She must have seen the logic. And still been a little buzzed, because in reality, Brenna was no polished fighter.

"I think I've heard of this game..."

She steps away from the car.

"Okay. Let's play."

She moves to the end of the parking lot and the beginning of the sidewalk, offering her arm out to him.

"You first, but I'll warn you... I'm a horrible guesser."

He took her arm gracefully, holding it like a woman was supposed to hold a man's arm. He was backwards like that, and in any account, it was fun.

"All right. I'm really a woman."

Lie number one.

The streets were gorgeous at this time of night, in his opinion. Streetlights only illuminated small alcoves around them, allowing shadows to have their wicked ways across the streets and sidewalks. To him, the windows in the buildings and stores were like eyes, prying eyes that tried to draw you in and tell you their secrets.

It was almost magical, if one could believe in magic.

Brenna did not try to change this, patting his hand and strolling down the cracked sidewalk.

"Mmm... I've got to guess lie.. although with surgery nowadays.."

She rolls her eyes heavenward and smirks to herself. She then rolls her shoulders and looks at him.

"I can play eight different instruments."

Truth too, Brenna's entire life even now revolved around music. And she didn't say well, but she was passable with most of them.

He momentarily disappeared into a shadow, and when he was irradiated once again by the streetlight, his teeth glinted.

"You're right, it was a lie. I'm one hundred percent man."

He pat his chest, as if to make sure he hadn't sprouted breasts.

"And I'm going to have to go with truth. Just because it's too out of the ordinary to be a lie."

The sidewalk was uneven. He was careful not to trip.

"I've had thirty different surgeries, all on seperate parts of my body."

Lie number two.

She smirks, facing him with a question that had nothing to do with the game.

"Are any of us entirely man or entirely woman? I mean.. to the hundred even percent?"

It was almost philosphical.

"Yeah, it's true."

She thinks and studies his face as she works through either possibilty on his cheek. Just as her eyes seem to be slipping out of focus, she mumbles.

"... True."

Although she has no concrete basis.

"Biologically speaking? Maybe. Some, at least, if you go by the guidebook. Physically and mentally speaking? Not a single one of us. Pardon my term, it was incorrect I suppose."

Mulling that 'round the brain perhaps wasn't the best idea when one was off-the-wall drunk.

"If I stumble, then I apologize. And that's an impressive feat, the talent with music. I've never really been inclined. Got the voice of nails against a chalkboard, my ma used to say."

He wondered if his mom ever really said that.

"False," he corrected. "It's thirty-two, and counting."

So he really was a bit of a perfectionist.

"It's your turn, I believe."

"What fun is there if you go by the book?"

She shoots back in what can be considered an entirely different train of thought. Not unsual for her, though, jumpings cars mid-conversation.

"Apology accepted. It's not that amazing.. anyone else could do it if they started young enough. I was playing bongos at age two... which isn't very difficult, but I stuck with drums and then blossomed out from there. Drums were a good foundation... Once I could keep a beat in my head, everything else came naturally. Nevermind expensives books and lessons."

She blinks at him openly now.

"Thirty-two? Now that's an impressive feat. Dare I even question the bill behind all this? I think it far too nicely done for a back-alley chop shop."

She smirks at the idea. He in his nice clothes. Facial parts exchange. She then shakes her head before her inward giggles become outward ones and she needed to explain herself.

"My turn... All right..."

She sighed and thought.

"... I once went thirty-nine hours straight without sleeping."

She jams her hands into her pockets, nevermind she yanked his arm along for the ride. Her statement was false, as well.