Accepting it with a brief glance at the number written (she'll commit that to memory, later), Benevenuta holds the paper between two fingers and taps it absently on the island before she folds it neatly in half, pinches the edge with her nails and tears along it to trade him back her own CiD number with the pen from her pocket. It's readily available on the cohort network, but even so.

The small smile she offers him, polite but not insincere, is more or less the same expression that appears in a number of photographs from her suitcase, beneath blonde pin curls and a dark red bouffant and long, straight center-parted hair with oversized white-rimmed sunglasses. Unchanged and always changing; immovable. Incongruously with that impression, the expression peels back the weight of experience that she'd let herself wear for the conversation-- all at once she's only Vanessza Bernát, twenty-something Parisien doctor with a bleeding heart and quiet lifestyle.

“I will forward you my new address,” she says, use the goddamn door next time implied with figurative underlining. “There's an apartment at ground level with more space.”

It'll be more convenient, for numerous reasons; she'd been planning the move already, but 'I hate other people knowing where my things are' is sufficient impetus to move it up.