[pretty woman with her hair so dark and sleek, she reminds him of a song. she has that sort of poetic look about her, the kind that makes people want to know more. all thoughts that could be formed if he had a mind that could be made sense of, but instead he's excited at the challenge she presents. she hadn't fought his gentle advance, her soft hair like silk between his fingers, or minded the newfound intimacy.

it's the prying she minds. his lips pull into a pout, brows knitting in practiced concern.]

Bad memory? I'm sorry. I can't get scars, so I like lookin' at them.

[and he likes making them. he holds his hands above the water, palms up first, then turns them over again.]

See? Clean. [getting her mind off his screw up is the goal, to steer the train completely off the tracks so she can't keep up.] It's different for you, though, isn't it?