[He can catch the gist just fine, and he can read her intention well enough that it's like they've known each other for days, or else one hell of a session at O.R., and he shifts with her. Still with the drama, still with a lazy and heavy hand over his face. He tells himself it's him blocking the heat of the sun that'll leave his pasty skin blotched red anyway.

She's not wearing a skirt or the starched trousers that are coming into style, but did that matter? Sensibilities be damned, he's the wrong rascal to give a shit about that.

She wants to know about Boston-- he has to wrack his mind for the positives that don't involve Carlye or the Navy or advertising agencies. He settles on something safe.] I was working in a hospital somewhere, that's all. [In a very loose attempt to agree that No, he'd rather Not talk about it. What was the opposite of running away? Begging to stay home and getting trapped in a slaughterhouse for years anyway.]

Y'know... Lady, I'll tell ya about Boston if you tell me your name. I know all the jazz houses.