Ida mirrored his shrug with her own– it was as good an introduction as any– though was rather surprised to hear that he didn’t consider himself poetic. This was a man who was sentimental about ghosts’ feelings, she already presumed he was a bit of a romantic. Even what he said next seemed romantic – or at least, what she thought he’d say. Without really thinking about it, her head tipped to the side in thought. But I haven’t fallen in love, or but I’ve been in love and still couldn’t, she expected to hear. Though he pivoted.

Well, it makes sense he’d pivot from that. Maybe her wet blanket worked after all, and he decided it felt too overt. The faintest inkling of intuition made her wonder if maybe he was in love, which might explain why he felt so clear on the matter of being no poet. It’s the type of thing someone says after they’ve attempted. It contrasted with Ida’s situation, since she was sure she’s never been in love, and thus never attempted writing poetry herself.

In that light, maybe he was just being nice all along? Which of course, instantly correlated with feeling guilty, even if she probably did nothing wrong. In hindsight, she disliked being so skeptical and standoffish during their conversation. (Agh, all these cues one must know how to read, why must talking with the opposite sex be so complicated? Always in the way of finding a perfectly good friend or having a pleasant philosophical discourse?)

Impulse fueled by equivalent feelings of guilt and liquid courage, Ida resolved that she ought to be more of her typical ‘insightful’ self, and speak her mind and be less self-conscious, as he suggested. “Something lovely or something devastating,” she nodded in agreement, “Real artists seem to have the ability to find fresh wonders in the most mundane, everyday things. I suppose it’s why Shakespeare is so popular. His romances and tragedies are things anyone can find a bit of themselves reflected in. Ah, there you are,”

Ida cut her own thought off, nearly diving to wave for the attention of a servant drifting by with a tray of drinks just behind Mister Greengrass. “I shall trade you,” she offered the server once he approached, taking one full glass and placing down her empty, “And one for my friend, if he pleases.” The servant had already reached for the man’s empty glass at the instruction, and it was as the new drink was handed over that realization struck the young woman. Drat – she’d gotten him the drink, which effectively reversed their roles, didn’t it? With a sinking feeling she realized that was... probably odd, wasn't it?

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