The lights dimmed before he had a chance to respond, which meant Ford had the next several minutes to obsess over the question. Was he alright? If the lights hadn't changed he would have said yes, of course without a second thought, but now he had a second to think. There must have been something that had spurred her to ask in the first place. She was perceptive; he'd noted that the last time they conversed. Miss Chang had noticed something that had made her think he wasn't feeling alright. Had he put his foot in his mouth at some point? He retraced their conversation for the past several minutes and couldn't think of where he might have. Christmas, family, drinks, dancers, distractions...
Oh. Distractions. That was something, because the lights had dimmed and the crowd had hushed and someone had come out onto the small stage, and it hadn't even occurred to him to look in that direction yet. He was still looking at her, at the shape of her eyes and the curve of her neck and the slightest movement of her lips, and he ought to be watching the ballet. He took a drink and forced his eyes in the direction of the stage, though he was incapable of forcing his attention to follow.
Was something the matter? He was distracted by her now, and he hadn't been the first time they'd talked. That was probably what she was picking up on, but Ford didn't know if this was a problem with him then or now — or if it was a problem at all. What was the trouble with noticing? But if she was noticing, and thought it was something to be worried about, then maybe she was right. He wasn't drunk, but suddenly he was doubting his version of events so far that evening. If he couldn't trust his own narrative, though, he didn't know how to handle the issue. He desperately wished Tycho were here, or that things weren't so off between him and Noble. He blinked and tried to actually focus on the performance, with minimal success, then took another sip of his drink (which he'd likely finish by the time the lights returned, at this rate). He caught himself looking at her again, blushed, and tried to shift his eyes back to the dancer on the stage before she could catch him looking.
Oh. Distractions. That was something, because the lights had dimmed and the crowd had hushed and someone had come out onto the small stage, and it hadn't even occurred to him to look in that direction yet. He was still looking at her, at the shape of her eyes and the curve of her neck and the slightest movement of her lips, and he ought to be watching the ballet. He took a drink and forced his eyes in the direction of the stage, though he was incapable of forcing his attention to follow.
Was something the matter? He was distracted by her now, and he hadn't been the first time they'd talked. That was probably what she was picking up on, but Ford didn't know if this was a problem with him then or now — or if it was a problem at all. What was the trouble with noticing? But if she was noticing, and thought it was something to be worried about, then maybe she was right. He wasn't drunk, but suddenly he was doubting his version of events so far that evening. If he couldn't trust his own narrative, though, he didn't know how to handle the issue. He desperately wished Tycho were here, or that things weren't so off between him and Noble. He blinked and tried to actually focus on the performance, with minimal success, then took another sip of his drink (which he'd likely finish by the time the lights returned, at this rate). He caught himself looking at her again, blushed, and tried to shift his eyes back to the dancer on the stage before she could catch him looking.
Set by Lady!