Karen.

[ He says her name as if to test it out on his tongue, the way it sounds and tastes in his mouth like wine. If he really wanted to play it up, he'd push himself closer to her side of the booth, get in her space. But he doesn't, keeps his distance even with the smarmy smile that feels like a permanent fixture on his face.

It's a beat, but he shakes her hand after a moment. Her fingers are long, her skin soft. He allows his touch to linger on the heel of her palm, the pads of his fingers coarse against her skin, before his hand falls back to his side. ]

The pleasure's all mine. Order whatever you'd like - I'll be having whatever you're having. [ Now that that's out of the way, his eyes narrow, just minutely. He'd been right. It's not often he isn't. Karen Page may look like a doe in headlights, but she certainly is not.

Fingers tapping against the flute in his hand, he downs the rest of the ginger ale and exhales, looking back at Karen. That smile only spreads further, jejune and airy. ]

I'm old-fashioned, Ms. Page. I still drink my morning coffee with a newspaper, so I'm familiar with some of your work over at the Bulletin.