The way she moved, like the exotic, tropical birds and fish he'd seen, bright spots of beauty between the episodes of horror that had been Guadalcanal and Iwo, the sight of it lifted a few of the hard-worn years from Nick's face. He found his own movements slowing down in response, losing a bit of the New York City rush to ease down on a stool that still left one between the two of them. He'd not completely forgotten how to be a gentleman... but it felt odd, like the suit he'd put on the first day out of uniform.<br/><br/>The coffee arrived just then, giving him time to dump in three packets of sugar, stir it, take a gulp and wince at the taste. Black tasted better, but a bus driver down in Mobile had told him that sugar in the coffee 'could half wake a body from the grave.' He'd tried it and decided the man had been right, but it still tasted wrong. The whole time his hands were busy, though, Nick's eyes never really left her, just moved from her hand to the line of her throat, to the plume of smoke escaping her lips... to the way her legs flexed in the unconventional way she sat on the stool. She was mana to a man lost in the desert, but there was one more question he had to ask before he could get to the one that stood out most strongly in his mind.<br/><br/>"How far you thinking of going? If you don't mind my saying so, ma'am, I don't recall seeing another car parked out front. Are you waiting for someone?"