"With a question mark," Maris says, her voice tightening at the edges. "Like you're actually asking. Like you care about the answer."
The suggestion makes no sense. "Why would I want to know how they are? I don't know them. They're strangers walking through a door."
"Because it's polite!" Her hands fly up, exasperation written in every line of her body. The motion sends a faint scent of motor oil and vanilla across the space between us. She smells like contradictions. I notice that more than I should.
"Polite," I echo. The word tastes strange. Hollow. A shell with nothing inside.
"Yes. Polite. You ask because it's what people do. It makes them feel welcome. Seen." She's looking at me like I'm missing something obvious, something everyone else was born understanding.
Maybe I was. Maybe that part of me got burned away before I could learn it. Before I became this.
I try again, forcing my voice to curve upward at the end. "Good morning. How are you today?"
It still sounds wrong. A poor copy of something real.
Pebble meows from the windowsill. Judging us. Probably laughing.
Maris takes a breath. Lets it out slow. "You know what? Let's practice something else. Compliments. Can you compliment someone?"
"Your hands fix things," I say. "I like that."
She freezes. Color rises in her cheeks. Fast. "That's. Um. That's actually really sweet. But maybe something less. Intense? For strangers?"
"What's intense about it?"
"It's very direct. Personal. Try something neutral. Like, 'Nice jacket,' or 'I like your hair.'"
I study her. "But who cares about the jackets. And your hair's always the same. Messy. Good messy. I like it messy."
I watch the color climb higher in her skin, spreading from her cheeks down into the hollow of her throat. A tide of heat beneath all that paleness. I can't look away from it. Can't stop cataloguing the way it blooms.
"Grath." My name comes out soft. Half warning, half something else.
"What?" I don't understand what I've done wrong this time. The air between us feels thick suddenly. Charged.
"You can't tell customers you like their hair messy."
The statement lands flat. Final. Like she's explaining a law of nature I somehow missed.
"Why not?" It's a genuine question. I want to understand. I'm trying.
Her lips part. Close again. She's searching for words, and I see her struggle with the same focus I bring to everything. Too much focus. That's probably part of the problem.
"Because it's..." She trails off. Tries again. "It's too much. Too familiar."
Too much. I've heard that before. About my staring. About the questions I ask. About the way I stand too close or not close enough, never quite calibrated right. Always some invisible line I can't see until I've already crossed it.
My frown settles in, that familiar weight between my brows. "So I lie? Say nice things I don't mean?" The idea sits wrong in my mouth. Sour. I've done enough lying. Been enough things I'm not.
"No." She shakes her head, quick and firm. "You just..." Her hands move, like she's trying to shape the concept in the air between us. "Find something true that's also appropriate."
The distinction makes no sense to me. True is true. Why does appropriate matter?
But Maris looks flustered and determined and I want to make this work for her, so I try.
"Okay," I say. "I'll practice appropriate compliments."
"Great. Let's roleplay. I'm Mrs. Henderson from down the street. What do you say to me?"
