[ — okay, for all her earlier inner monologue, there is something about the vagabond angle of verso's lean and the ease with which he starts to read. it's the way these men from other worlds don't carry an ounce of insecurity in their literacy. wit had it, too. he used to lean over her shoulder, peering at the paperwork littering her desk, and offer off-colour commentary about obscure legal codes. at first, it would catch her by surprise. like she'd forgotten he could do that.
she doesn't take her eyes off him until the scribes' chattering increases in volume. one wonders whether he's a dignitary from another kingdom. another comments that he's almost too short to be alethi. the third posits that he must be faking it.
verso's quiet critique draws her attention back to him. she snorts derisively. ]
Every word was necessary. Not everyone picks it up with the requisite background information.
[ as if resentful of her own fascination with him, jasnah grabs some reading material for herself and stalks over to a low settee. she settles, straight-backed, and will certainly make him chase her to the couch if he wants to share any further opinions. ]
[ All right. That 'short' comment is a bit of a blow to his masculinity, and his eyebrow twitches just slightly. He's a perfectly respectable height everywhere but here.
He says nothing, though, not even to Jasnah's quick retort-and-retreat. When she settles down on the settee, he does the same, lowering down next to her (with a polite-but-friendly foot or so between them). Although he's sitting beside her, his posture is remarkably looser than hers as he kicks his feet up on a stool and starts reading in earnest. A few minutes stretch into tens of minutes, no sound from Verso save for the semifrequent turning of a page.
It's not quite commentary that he ends up offering, but a faint, under his breath laugh. ]
[ it isn't until he laughs — however softly — that she realizes how attuned she'd been to his body language, his progress, his presence. jasnah had been trying to dig into her chosen copy of pleadix's introspections (not for the first time) but found her attention drifting back to...his feet, propped up on a stool.
after around half an hour, even the trio of scribes tired of the spectacle. they lapsed into a conversation about chasmfiends instead. apparently, one had been spotted between a couple of nearby plateaus.
but jasnah? jasnah fixates. she isn't nervous or insecure about her publication. quite the opposite — she stands by her work. however, it's hard to say how it holds up against what might be rudimentary knowledge in another world. she'd thought herself so clever, once, until wit had pulled back the curtain on the variety of invested arts across the cosmere.
so when he laughs, she flinches. clearing her throat, but not looking up, she softly counters: ]
[ He hadn't actually meant to laugh aloud, but at her response, Verso realizes he had. He also realizes that it means she must have been listening, which he notes with some amount of private, smug pleasure.
Verso doesn't look up either, still finishing a paragraph in which Jasnah discusses the finer details of the Dawnchant. He's intelligent enough to understand most of it, aside from some of the more particular jargon that must be unique to this world, although admittedly it's not the sort of work he would ever choose to read on his own. He's reading it because she wrote it, and because she told him to. ]
Nothing.
[ A finished paragraph and another flick of the page with his thumb and index finger. ]
...It's just your writing style.
[ He could explain himself further, but perhaps—perhaps!!!—he is enjoying having her attention for once. ]
jasnah chews on his answer. there's no question in her mind that her writing style is precise, carefully edited, and pitched to be at least passably accessibly by most scholars. perhaps a touch opaque for juniors just learning to cut their teeth on barlsha lhan. ]
And?
[ she prompts, leaning back into the corner of the settee — folding an elbow against the back cushion and turning her body just so. ]
[ Ah, he's very much enjoying this. Verso sets the book down in his lap and regards her with a mild, pleasant sort of look. ]
It's... meticulous. Brutally efficient.
[ Not a word that doesn't need to be there, nor one used when another word would be preferable. No flowery or meandering language. Entirely different to the prose he's accustomed to reading. ]
her gaze lingers on him for a beat — assessing, not indulgent. ]
Precision spares the reader confusion. Ornamentation serves the author, not the argument.
[ she pauses, surprised to find herself actually considering his words rather than dismissing them. it's a practical kind of reflection — a scholar's instinct, not vanity. she reviews her tone, her phrasing, the deliberate cadence of her essays. there's a certain satisfaction in realizing he's not wrong. and if he's not wrong, then perhaps he's sincere.
she closes her book gently, gloved thumb resting on the spine. ]
Still, I'm gratified you can hear me even in my footnotes.
[ a small flicker at the corner of her mouth — not quite a smile, but enough to betray that the exchange has pleased her more than she intends to show. something not-quite-but-close-to trust. ]
[ Infinitely observant, the flicker does not go unnoted. She's pleased with him, or at least not displeased, which is beginning to seem like all he may be able to hope for. A flash of a memory, Clea rolling her eyes—what, do you want a pat on the head and one of the dog's biscuits?
Playfully: ] Oh, especially the footnotes.
[ He gestures to the book in her lap with a jerk of his chin. ]
[ she turns the copy of introspections in her lap. it's a bit vague and open-ended, even for advanced study, but perhaps it caught her eye because of him. because what effect might a wholly new world have on someone so far from home. ]
It's — it's about change.
[ she taps a single nail against the spine. there's no harm in asking, she supposes. ]
Change in one's beliefs, or tastes, or behaviors. Based on when their environment changes. Like...like a sailor who hates palafruit until an extended stay in a friendly shipping city with a great deal of palafruit export makes him change his mind. It made me wonder what changes you might experience, given time.
[ okay, well, she didn't really ask anything in the end. ]
[ Even when she's thinking of him, it has the distinct air of picturing him as an insect under a microscope. A different man might find this off-putting, but Verso finds it— charming, in its own way. It's endearing in its dedication to academia, and although it does make him wonder if his only point of interest for her is his foreignness, it's nice to be interesting at all. ]
I think I've experienced some already.
[ Life in his own world had been terribly dreary. Existence at all had felt like an unforgivable sin, like he was poisoning the world just by being in it. Endless suffering, all to maintain a world in which he existed—it would have been better, kinder, if it were all gone. There's no pain in oblivion.
This world doesn't have that problem. It's far from perfect, but it's beyond his wildest dreams regardless. ]
[ storms, she nearly asks. the question leadens the tip of her tongue — dragging the words back into her throat, down beneath her ribs, before she manages to say them aloud: what changes have you felt? when did you notice them? it isn't that she fears being nosy; rather, she baulks at the prospect of what she might learn, live. maybe she'll ask him to write it down for her, later. something she can ruminate on. read and reread. something she doesn't have to react to in the moment.
jasnah clears her throat, shakes her head, and shelves her sentiment for now. instead, she leans forward just enough to tap his copy of relic and monument. ]
We can translate it, now. The Dawnchant. That book is already outdated on a number of topics.
[ when in doubt — when uncomfortable with reality — retreat to academia. that has always been her way, ever since her childhood illness. turn to the things you can control; don't let anyone suspect you might be losing control of others. ]
[ It feels a bit like being whipped around, the way she expresses interest in him one moment and abruptly changes the subject the next. No, more than being whipped around; it's like being blindfolded, turned in circles, and then set loose. Dizzying.
He tries to keep up regardless, still adept at pleasant conversation even if his more advanced social skills may have eroded over time. ]
That's the second outdated book you've given me. [ She'd said the history book was outdated, too! ] I'm starting to think I should stick to the source herself.
[ hers is an approving smile — more easily dispensed on the familiar ground of her studies, her specialties, her life's work. she likes how he picked up on that fact. she likes how he's peering behind one sentence and linking it to another. ]
We've experienced rather a lot of change this past year.
[ the kholins, the kindgom of alethkar, the planet of roshar. ]
At this rate, I daresay most of our history is flawed. Fundamental truths about our provenance and existence on this planet turned out to be neither fundamental nor true. Lies we told ourselves.
[ hmm. ]
Why haven't you asked for help to find a way back home, Dessendre?
[ she might be able to guess given their conversation earlier today. still, she wants to hear it aloud. ]
[ Still blindfolded, he feels her turning him around again. It's like she wants to ensure that he's off-kilter, that only one of them—her—knows exactly where they are and where they're going. She asks about him again, and he can't tell whether she wants him to talk about himself or not, anymore.
Mm. Well, it is a question about his home, not just about himself. Maybe it's more meant to glean information about his world than about him. That, at least, she's been undeniably interested in learning about. ]
Maybe I prefer the wine here.
[ He glances down at the book in his lap, foot pumping restlessly where it sits crossed over his ankle. ]
Doesn't everyone want to escape their life every once in a while?
[ It's the same thing he'd said about escapist fiction. ]
[ her tone is calibrated perfectly to mimic a kind of aha, gotcha! — the tone of a strict tutor, rapping you on the wrist for speaking in generalities. it's the closest she's come to lying to verso outright. oh, she's omitted and redirected plenty, but this particular response is a bit of slight-of-hand. what she says is true, but not strictly what she means.
because once upon a time, a very young jasnah kholin struggled to sort fact from ficton within her own mind. since those dark, painful days, she puts as much space between herself and escapism as she possibly can. or, put differently, digging her nails into the grime and mess of everyday here is a kind of escapism in itself. ]
Where I in your shoes, [ a brief glance at his boots, ] I'd be clamoring to return to where I came from.
[ Self-consciously, he stops the restless movement of his foot. ]
I'm afraid my shoes would be too big for you.
[ Verso regards her with a sidelong glance, considering. Explaining the truth in all of its gory glory is, of course, not an option. What could he possibly say? It turns out I'm just a facsimile of someone who died horribly, living in an artificial Canvas that my mother refuses to leave even though it's rotting her from the inside out. Every year, more and more people die because I exist. Oh, and I killed the only woman I've ever loved to keep my horrible secret. We're still on for that library thing, right?
No. Some things should remain unsaid. ]
You can trust me when I say that it's better this way.
he uses the word idiomatically — or so she assumes — but it still strikes like a bell. jasnah isn't trusting, not in the least, and she can't help but be suspicious of a man dumped onto a wartorn planet and seems to see it as a welcome escape. granted, she also assumes he can't be too far off from that gommage-thing's next few numbers. but, on the other hand, he's got a younger sister...hasn't he?
and yet he appears to be in no rush to return to her. does she live? jasnah frowns, certain only that she will bend physics and break laws to safeguard her blood. storms, she hired an assassin simply because she didn't trust her sister in law. ah, there's that word again.
trust. ]
Should I assume you'll be taking up a more permanent residency at Urithiru, then?
[ more permanent than whatever oddity-refugee-foreigner status she seems to have granted him thus far. ]
[ This is probably a conversation best had in private, but Jasnah seems unaware of the fact that it could potentially be uncomfortable for him to have to discuss his tenuous future in the same room as three strangers, so he steels himself. He's already begun considering the alternatives, places he might be able to stay, things he might be able to do for work. Living out on his own in the wilderness seems less and less feasible now that he knows just how deadly a highstorm can be.
It would be easier to stay here, certainly. The chances of finding a second queen willing to humor an offworld transplant feel negligible. ]
If ma reine is amenable to a foreigner in her midst.
[ you wouldn't be the first — but she doesn't say it. she may have broken off her...arrangement with wit, but she'll nevertheless keep his secrets. the letter he left her suggested their paths may never cross again, but there are still some things they owe one another. ]
We welcome Herdazian refugees. Azish traders. You're simply...a little more foreign than most.
[ her voice is light, obliging, which is a warning sign in itself. the pedal note of her thoughts is caught up wondering why he wants to stay. a sense of survival? legal trouble back home? ]
[ It is a bit strange, the uncharacteristically accommodating lilt to her voice. He'd expected her response to have a bit more of her typical acerbic wit, maybe something like as long as you don't shed on the carpet, if they're going to continue on with the dog comparison. It's not a bad response, though, and although he's a cynic at heart, he knows better than to look a gift horse in the mouth. Being here can't be any worse than being there. ]
And what would you suggest a foreign refugee do to earn his keep?
[ He doubts enough people will be interested in taking piano lessons. ]
[ she doesn't suppose that visit nightly and detail to me all the quirks and features of your planet constitutes an attractive enough job offer. ]
There's no housing fee at Urithiru. Not for anyone. It... [ well, it's because they all escaped there as refugees, to start. ] It's got space enough. Anyone on the side of the Coalition is welcome.
[ as for everything else? food, drink, clothing, other amenities... ]
— Go on. List your skills.
[ yes, maybe this SHOULD be happening somewhere more private. ]
[ Verso stares at her, obviously a bit taken aback—slash amused—by the command. And it is a command, delivered with all the imperiousness of a queen. ]
Right now?
[ This is very off the cuff! He straightens up a bit, letting his feet drop to the floor, heels of his boots making a very faint thud as they hit the ground. ]
You've already heard me play. [ If he sounds a bit arrogant, well. So he is. There's no doubt in his mind that he's more musically gifted than most, given that he's been practicing for a century. ] I write poetry on occasion. And I'm not a half-bad waltzer.
[ these are not marketable skills. rather — she can think of only one position that fits a man who plays music and writes poetry. and two days ago they already discussed how that would nevertheless be a terrible assignment. and really, jasnah doesn't think she even needs a new queen's wit... ]
— Waltzer? What's a waltzer?
[ maybe it's a martial form. a sword stance. she can work with that. ]
[ Well, he is quite good with a weapon, but he's not quite sure how to bring that one up after he's unintentionally painted himself into a corner of being a total city boy who's never set foot on the Continent. Give him a moment to think of a good lie.
In the meantime, he scoots forward a little on the settee and holds his arms up, approximating a leading dancer's stance. ]
You know—
[ He hums Strauss's Blue Danube. Dundundundundu-dundun-dundun. ]
I thought you were top of your class in dancing lessons.
[ deftly, she leans back — out of his way, although his gesture doesn't truly come close to intersecting with how she sits. her gaze narrows, and even after he mimes the action she can't quite determine what in damnation he's suggesting.
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she doesn't take her eyes off him until the scribes' chattering increases in volume. one wonders whether he's a dignitary from another kingdom. another comments that he's almost too short to be alethi. the third posits that he must be faking it.
verso's quiet critique draws her attention back to him. she snorts derisively. ]
Every word was necessary. Not everyone picks it up with the requisite background information.
[ as if resentful of her own fascination with him, jasnah grabs some reading material for herself and stalks over to a low settee. she settles, straight-backed, and will certainly make him chase her to the couch if he wants to share any further opinions. ]
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He says nothing, though, not even to Jasnah's quick retort-and-retreat. When she settles down on the settee, he does the same, lowering down next to her (with a polite-but-friendly foot or so between them). Although he's sitting beside her, his posture is remarkably looser than hers as he kicks his feet up on a stool and starts reading in earnest. A few minutes stretch into tens of minutes, no sound from Verso save for the semifrequent turning of a page.
It's not quite commentary that he ends up offering, but a faint, under his breath laugh. ]
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after around half an hour, even the trio of scribes tired of the spectacle. they lapsed into a conversation about chasmfiends instead. apparently, one had been spotted between a couple of nearby plateaus.
but jasnah? jasnah fixates. she isn't nervous or insecure about her publication. quite the opposite — she stands by her work. however, it's hard to say how it holds up against what might be rudimentary knowledge in another world. she'd thought herself so clever, once, until wit had pulled back the curtain on the variety of invested arts across the cosmere.
so when he laughs, she flinches. clearing her throat, but not looking up, she softly counters: ]
Find something amusing?
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Verso doesn't look up either, still finishing a paragraph in which Jasnah discusses the finer details of the Dawnchant. He's intelligent enough to understand most of it, aside from some of the more particular jargon that must be unique to this world, although admittedly it's not the sort of work he would ever choose to read on his own. He's reading it because she wrote it, and because she told him to. ]
Nothing.
[ A finished paragraph and another flick of the page with his thumb and index finger. ]
...It's just your writing style.
[ He could explain himself further, but perhaps—perhaps!!!—he is enjoying having her attention for once. ]
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jasnah chews on his answer. there's no question in her mind that her writing style is precise, carefully edited, and pitched to be at least passably accessibly by most scholars. perhaps a touch opaque for juniors just learning to cut their teeth on barlsha lhan. ]
And?
[ she prompts, leaning back into the corner of the settee — folding an elbow against the back cushion and turning her body just so. ]
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It's... meticulous. Brutally efficient.
[ Not a word that doesn't need to be there, nor one used when another word would be preferable. No flowery or meandering language. Entirely different to the prose he's accustomed to reading. ]
It's as if your voice is leaping off the page.
[ 'You write how you talk,' essentially. ]
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her gaze lingers on him for a beat — assessing, not indulgent. ]
Precision spares the reader confusion. Ornamentation serves the author, not the argument.
[ she pauses, surprised to find herself actually considering his words rather than dismissing them. it's a practical kind of reflection — a scholar's instinct, not vanity. she reviews her tone, her phrasing, the deliberate cadence of her essays. there's a certain satisfaction in realizing he's not wrong. and if he's not wrong, then perhaps he's sincere.
she closes her book gently, gloved thumb resting on the spine. ]
Still, I'm gratified you can hear me even in my footnotes.
[ a small flicker at the corner of her mouth — not quite a smile, but enough to betray that the exchange has pleased her more than she intends to show. something not-quite-but-close-to trust. ]
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Playfully: ] Oh, especially the footnotes.
[ He gestures to the book in her lap with a jerk of his chin. ]
You already know what mine's about. What's yours?
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It's — it's about change.
[ she taps a single nail against the spine. there's no harm in asking, she supposes. ]
Change in one's beliefs, or tastes, or behaviors. Based on when their environment changes. Like...like a sailor who hates palafruit until an extended stay in a friendly shipping city with a great deal of palafruit export makes him change his mind. It made me wonder what changes you might experience, given time.
[ okay, well, she didn't really ask anything in the end. ]
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I think I've experienced some already.
[ Life in his own world had been terribly dreary. Existence at all had felt like an unforgivable sin, like he was poisoning the world just by being in it. Endless suffering, all to maintain a world in which he existed—it would have been better, kinder, if it were all gone. There's no pain in oblivion.
This world doesn't have that problem. It's far from perfect, but it's beyond his wildest dreams regardless. ]
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jasnah clears her throat, shakes her head, and shelves her sentiment for now. instead, she leans forward just enough to tap his copy of relic and monument. ]
We can translate it, now. The Dawnchant. That book is already outdated on a number of topics.
[ when in doubt — when uncomfortable with reality — retreat to academia. that has always been her way, ever since her childhood illness. turn to the things you can control; don't let anyone suspect you might be losing control of others. ]
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He tries to keep up regardless, still adept at pleasant conversation even if his more advanced social skills may have eroded over time. ]
That's the second outdated book you've given me. [ She'd said the history book was outdated, too! ] I'm starting to think I should stick to the source herself.
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We've experienced rather a lot of change this past year.
[ the kholins, the kindgom of alethkar, the planet of roshar. ]
At this rate, I daresay most of our history is flawed. Fundamental truths about our provenance and existence on this planet turned out to be neither fundamental nor true. Lies we told ourselves.
[ hmm. ]
Why haven't you asked for help to find a way back home, Dessendre?
[ she might be able to guess given their conversation earlier today. still, she wants to hear it aloud. ]
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Mm. Well, it is a question about his home, not just about himself. Maybe it's more meant to glean information about his world than about him. That, at least, she's been undeniably interested in learning about. ]
Maybe I prefer the wine here.
[ He glances down at the book in his lap, foot pumping restlessly where it sits crossed over his ankle. ]
Doesn't everyone want to escape their life every once in a while?
[ It's the same thing he'd said about escapist fiction. ]
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[ her tone is calibrated perfectly to mimic a kind of aha, gotcha! — the tone of a strict tutor, rapping you on the wrist for speaking in generalities. it's the closest she's come to lying to verso outright. oh, she's omitted and redirected plenty, but this particular response is a bit of slight-of-hand. what she says is true, but not strictly what she means.
because once upon a time, a very young jasnah kholin struggled to sort fact from ficton within her own mind. since those dark, painful days, she puts as much space between herself and escapism as she possibly can. or, put differently, digging her nails into the grime and mess of everyday here is a kind of escapism in itself. ]
Where I in your shoes, [ a brief glance at his boots, ] I'd be clamoring to return to where I came from.
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I'm afraid my shoes would be too big for you.
[ Verso regards her with a sidelong glance, considering. Explaining the truth in all of its gory glory is, of course, not an option. What could he possibly say? It turns out I'm just a facsimile of someone who died horribly, living in an artificial Canvas that my mother refuses to leave even though it's rotting her from the inside out. Every year, more and more people die because I exist. Oh, and I killed the only woman I've ever loved to keep my horrible secret. We're still on for that library thing, right?
No. Some things should remain unsaid. ]
You can trust me when I say that it's better this way.
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he uses the word idiomatically — or so she assumes — but it still strikes like a bell. jasnah isn't trusting, not in the least, and she can't help but be suspicious of a man dumped onto a wartorn planet and seems to see it as a welcome escape. granted, she also assumes he can't be too far off from that gommage-thing's next few numbers. but, on the other hand, he's got a younger sister...hasn't he?
and yet he appears to be in no rush to return to her. does she live? jasnah frowns, certain only that she will bend physics and break laws to safeguard her blood. storms, she hired an assassin simply because she didn't trust her sister in law. ah, there's that word again.
trust. ]
Should I assume you'll be taking up a more permanent residency at Urithiru, then?
[ more permanent than whatever oddity-refugee-foreigner status she seems to have granted him thus far. ]
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It would be easier to stay here, certainly. The chances of finding a second queen willing to humor an offworld transplant feel negligible. ]
If ma reine is amenable to a foreigner in her midst.
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We welcome Herdazian refugees. Azish traders. You're simply...a little more foreign than most.
[ her voice is light, obliging, which is a warning sign in itself. the pedal note of her thoughts is caught up wondering why he wants to stay. a sense of survival? legal trouble back home? ]
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And what would you suggest a foreign refugee do to earn his keep?
[ He doubts enough people will be interested in taking piano lessons. ]
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There's no housing fee at Urithiru. Not for anyone. It... [ well, it's because they all escaped there as refugees, to start. ] It's got space enough. Anyone on the side of the Coalition is welcome.
[ as for everything else? food, drink, clothing, other amenities... ]
— Go on. List your skills.
[ yes, maybe this SHOULD be happening somewhere more private. ]
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Right now?
[ This is very off the cuff! He straightens up a bit, letting his feet drop to the floor, heels of his boots making a very faint thud as they hit the ground. ]
You've already heard me play. [ If he sounds a bit arrogant, well. So he is. There's no doubt in his mind that he's more musically gifted than most, given that he's been practicing for a century. ] I write poetry on occasion. And I'm not a half-bad waltzer.
[ These are not marketable skills. ]
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— Waltzer? What's a waltzer?
[ maybe it's a martial form. a sword stance. she can work with that. ]
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In the meantime, he scoots forward a little on the settee and holds his arms up, approximating a leading dancer's stance. ]
You know—
[ He hums Strauss's Blue Danube. Dundundundundu-dundun-dundun. ]
I thought you were top of your class in dancing lessons.
[ Class of one. ]
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but then he hums. and talks about dancing.
oh — hmm. ]
And...a waltzer is a — a dance?
[ help a gal out. ]
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aggressively backflips into prose
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tosses u a midnight before bed tag.......
delightful.
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