[ Well, since he brought it up. Her focus narrows so intently that it could burn a hole through both of them, zing through air like a sniper's bullet. Only when she is perfectly attenuated to her reception is she still. Spatial changes sometimes invoke themselves. The room itself distances itself, grows smaller, more remote. Time falls away like dead leaves from an autumn tree, orange, yellow — ]

Red. Blood all over you like a patchwork of DNA. Some of it is really old. [ Now her fingers tick off one, two. She leans forward, airy voice observational. Every microexpression is absorbed into the vast library of her memory, each lash flicker and frown, drop or rise in voice. These physical tells matter in the scope of what's in his head, calling out to her. His signature is not loud, per se, but it is unusual, and that compels her curiosity. ] Id, ego. The superego has very little hold on your spirit. If you were an animal, it would be a hunting animal. Something big tagged you in the wild, wrote its name on you. You think in pictures, but the pictures don't stay the same. I like seeing it.

And you, you like being different. It doesn't scare you. I guess that's what shames me, sometimes, though, so you're right about that.

[ A beat. This is a test. She wants to see if he'll be disturbed by her insight. Roza settles back in her chair, more cavalier but no less truthful: ] You were thinking about putting me facefirst on the table. That is different. Real different from the one people usually want from me.