"She's ordinarily much better looking than you," she says, in an exceedingly reasonable tone of voice. "It was more noteworthy."

Crossing her ankles, she leans back against the arm of the sofa and sighs out smoke, thinking her way through this evening and the rest of her night. It feels a little odd, all told, and the sensation of not being entirely sure what she's doing is- irritating. Most things that she isn't sure about are irritating, if only because that's the easiest way of classifying them.