self control

I knew that Maia was not going to be completely happy with me clearly keeping my distance after she asked me to come closer. Although I'm sure in mental clarity she will understand why I kept my distance, at the present time, it still must feel like rejection to her intoxicated mind. After all, I figured I would never see her again other than in neighborly passing after the incident a month ago, where I had so clearly misjudged what she wanted me to do and what was appropriate in that moment. After all, when her demons started to overwhelm her, I didn't know how to help, and I was just taking a shot in the dark at what might help, not knowing whether or not it would work. It appeared to work for a time but in the long run, hindered a connection that hadn't yet been made. And that stung me. The recent sketches of a lone silhouette of a girl in her bedroom window would show you how that stung me. Show me how her story made my heart ache, how not being able to be around her during this time made my heart ache.

But she's here now. And I'm glad she is. I would never wish for her to be alone like this and a month's worth of heaviness lifted from me when I saw her and realized that she had thought about me, even if maybe it was only after enough vodka to kill a small horse. I chuckle at her very clear disappointment that I wouldn't come nearer, watching her pull her hood over her head and pouting like a child. I shouldn't, but I have to say, I kind of enjoy this side of Maia. I enjoy every side of Maia, but knowing that this may or may not be the first time she's enjoyed herself in however long it's been since her loss, that made me smile. Perhaps she was like this before the accident. Perhaps, the bubbly, talkative girl in front of me is Maia before all the shadows took her. I'll never fully know that girl, and I am more than okay with that, but it's fun to see.

As I'm listening to her talking, I can't help but to smile a little as I observe her. She's rambling in that way that only grade school kids and really drunk people do. But I am listening intently to every word from her mouth. She tells me that she's started "doing stuff" again, clearly, from how it sounds, doing things she once enjoyed but that got lost in the chaos of her mind. Hearing her say that makes me so happy, I would almost say I'm giddy. Rediscovering my art during my grief may have singlehandedly been the thing that brought me out. In the whirlwind of words that followed, I almost missed her telling me that she missed me and then she came over to me, basically sitting on my lap. I grab on to her but only just enough to keep her from tumbling to the floor, I don't want to push anything with her being this intoxicated, despite how much I enjoy having her close. She rambles some more about how she's appreciative of me and then she begs me not to stay away. I find that so ironic, to the point it's almost humorous. I never ever wanted to stay away from her. It killed me to give her the space that I thought she wanted or that I thought she needed. I look at her in silence for a moment, before cracking a soft smile.

"Who said I wanted to stay away?"

Even though Maia is the one who drunkenly thought to come to me, I still feel as if I'm treading over very thin ice between what I want to do, what she might think she wants to do while in this state of mind, and what will ensure she won't run away from me again. I should move her off of my lap, I should tell her not to touch me (until she absolutely knows she wants to, of course), I should make get some other liquid or maybe a little food in her system, but I don't move at all because, God damn it, this is exactly what I wanted. The magnetism I felt towards her in this moment, even when she's barely able to form a coherent sentence is overwhelming and hard to turn off.

So I let her keep doing what she's doing, within reason. I let her readjust her body in a move that could've been purely for balance or one hundred percent animalistic desire to be close to someone. I notice her noticing things about me, my lips and the fraction of tattoo on my collarbone that's visible despite my clothes. And I don't speak as I let her process the details of me she might have noticed before, might have blocked from her mind when she decided being around me would be too much for her for the time being. I could never blame her for that.

When she finally speaks, seeming to have realized that she hadn't said anything in a second, I listen and process, as I always do, dissecting the meaning from her words. I'm lucky that I've spent so many years practicing keeping a calm face, despite the chaos that may be occurring in my brain since what she tells me next is.. shocking.. to put it simply. She's been okaybecause of me. The gravity of that statement throws me off balance. For some people, being okay comes naturally with time, but not all of us are that lucky and that's a big. f*cking. deal. And to top it all of, she presses a timid kiss to the tip of my nose. For a moment I think all I can do is stare at her, in awe of her. And despite every logical bone in my body, I press a soft kiss to her lips, hoping that was answer enough to the piece of her she just shared with me. I let the kiss linger for a moment, but I don't let it continue, shifting to move her off my lap purely to keep my temptation at bay.

"How about some tea, or food in your system, Maia?" I suggest, grabbing her hand and tugging her over to my kitchen.

I knew after I had kissed her, she wasn't going to be happy with what I suggested next. My guess was that after that it will be hard to keep her attention on something that doesn't involve touching me or kissing, but I have a lot of patience. I've spent my fair share of time around kids in my family and dealing with drunk girls is remarkably similar, so I wasn't that worried about keeping our physical contact limited. It was all about diverting her attention. She denies my offer to make her something to drink or eat, maybe she was starting to feel a little nauseous already, but I don't push her on it, just making a mental note to revisit later and at the very least, get her to drink a little water.

She comes over to me and wraps her arms around my neck, whining about how she doesn't want to eat anything before kissing me again, and I breathe out a sigh of relief that she doesn't really linger, keeping the kiss short and sweet. I don't want to upset her by dialing it back if she crosses the thin line of what I'm willing to do with her like this. She quickly stumbles away from me, going to the bottom of the staircase, talking about how she wants to see the rest of my house. Of course, I would never say no to her over something so seemingly harmless, but there's a tiny part of me that doesn't want to take her upstairs. It's a weird thing, but very few people in my life have ever been on the second floor of my little home. Mostly because there's not a whole lot to see and all of my "entertaining spaces" (if you will) are on the first floor. But also partially because it's a very private space for me that I don't let everyone into.

Although my place is small, there are actually two bedrooms here. Since the only inhabitants are me and the black cat I rescued from a shelter years ago when I was going through what Maia is, I don't need both bedrooms. Yet I still picked this place over some one bedroom places that might be a little roomier all so I could have a makeshift art studio. Showing people that room is showing them a big piece of me that I don't give to everyone. But if she wants to see my house, she can see my house, who am I to say no to Maia? Really. I huff a dramatic sigh at her but the smile on my face should show her that I'm being dramatic. She clearly is not going to do well with the stairs so I quickly hoist her up and carry her easily up the staircase. I lead her into my bedroom first, to distract her for a moment from the closed door to my studio. Of course there's the sketchbook I keep next to my bed for nights like the night I met her, but that's only a fraction of my work. My jet black cat who was lounging on my bed opens her eyes from the motion of us entering the room and yawns while stretching out a paw. "Is it as exciting as you hoped it would be, Maia?" I tease.

It's surprising on paper that someone I've met a total of two times is allowed to see the upper level of my home. Yes, maybe I could tell myself it was because there wasn't much to lose as more likely than not she won't remember most of this encounter tomorrow. But truthfully even if she was stone cold sober and asked for this I would've let her see anyway. My gut feeling was that I could whole-heartedly trust Maia and my gut feeling is almost always right. It was the same gut feeling that led me to find her in the middle of the night a month ago and although there are some things I would change about that night, I definitely haven't regretted that, without it she wouldn't be here, being giddy at the mere sight of a cat.

She immediately comes over to my cat and near drags her into her lap. She's a friendly cat so I can hear her distinctly noisy purring beginning immediately after Maia starts petting her. "I see you've met Luna" I say with a smile, scratching Luna between the ears briefly "I adopted her about five years ago when I was... in your position" I tell her, making light conversation but not getting into the loss I suffered so many years ago and yet somehow yesterday. Now's not the time for that, and she didn't ask. I'll be happy to tell her one day, given she doesn't regret this visit when she's sober and avoid me for another month.

She is not easily pacified by seeing my bedroom as her attention shifts towards the doorway. She cradles Luna in her arms as she stands and wanders towards the hallway. I cringe a little, not entirely sure trying to hold a cat on top of just trying to stand and walk is a great idea but I don't tell her to put the cat down. Luckily, Luna's very forgiving and doesn't mind being held and carried the way Maia is holding her.

She wanders out into the hallway, noticing the closed door to the studio I wasn't planning on showing her but also wouldn't deny her access to if she asked. Which I obviously know she's going to as soon as she spots it. Even in her condition.. she doesn't automatically open the door without (kinda) asking for permission to enter the room, which I notice and acknowledge is very respectful of her. I laugh a little as she tells me that I can trust her. "You caught me, that's where I keep all my dead bodies" I tease, stepping ahead of her and pushing the door open to reveal the messy room. Canvasses, paints, pencils, dirty dishes and teacups litter this room. Some finished pieces of mine are stored in here, but most of the work is in the process, half finished projects and paint stains on the sheets that protect the carpet of the room. It's organized chaos. If it weren't almost midnight there would be streaks of golden light through the window and the world would feel like it was standing still.

Typically, when I meet someone new, particularly a beautiful girl, there is a hump I have to overcome in order to become comfortable enough with someone to allow them to see who I am at my very core, which is most strongly represented in my art. I don't show my art to a lot of people, and the people who do eventually end up getting to see it don't get to see it until long after I've first met them. But Maia is different. She's different in this way just as she is in countless other ways. This is our second time meeting but her presence makes me feel like I've truly known her for a lifetime. Maybe it's the circumstances of our first meeting, during the middle of the night, when the rules of time don't seem to apply. Maybe it's because I heard part of her story the night I met her, and I feel we're connected by the mutual experience of grief, hers being much more recent of course, but grief is not something you ever really "get over", it's more something you get better at living with day by day. Or maybe I'm completely overthinking it and I simply like being around her because she is a good person to be around. Whatever the case, I know in this moment I much prefer to spend my nights with Maia and Luna than I do with just Luna. Even when she is drunk out of her mind.

I know we talked about my art the night we met, we had a conversation about tattoos and I told her I had designed all of mine myself, but I wasn't sure how much thought she had given to it. Maybe she had considered me to be more of a casual artist, only doodling in a sketchpad every now and then when the desire for a new tattoo hit me. I'm not sure, but the look on her face when she entered my guest-bedroom-converted-art-studio was something I hope I never forget. It almost appeared to me as a childlike wonder. I can't blame her, this room can be overwhelming at worst and chaotically beautiful at best, especially since I can never seem to stay on top of the dirty dishes and mugs that always acquire in this room. I kinda like it, I think it makes a space seem more lived in but to some people it just looks cluttered. Judging by the look on Maia's face, she doesn't seem to care. I don't speak as I let her take in this room in all it's messy, chaotic glory and eventually she finds herself stumbling back in my direction. I don't know how much she'll remember tomorrow but if she remembers one thing, I hope it's this. She wraps her arms around my neck, which I obviously like, not just because I get to be near her but also because I feel I have some control in keeping her upright.

She whispers my name and then showers me in compliments, telling me how amazing I am and how she wants to "know everything". I store that comment away in my brain to pick apart later, when I can think about what exactly that means for us, for now I just want to be present, in the moment with her. "You didn't just think I doodled every now and then when I fancied a new tattoo?" I ask her softly, cracking a little smile to let her know I was just teasing. "but thank you, Maia, I'm glad you think so" I whisper back. I think I could stay in this moment in time forever but before I get too comfortable with her in my arms I remember something.

"Speaking of tattoos..." I murmur, shifting the conversation. I gently step away from her but I lead her over to a wooden stool, helping her sit on it and telling her I'll be right back. I quickly traverse the short hallway into my bedroom and grab the sketchbook that I keep next to my bed. I'm barely out of the room before I'm back at her side. I quickly flip back through the massive sketchbook, about 30 pages, until I land on a page, dated one day after the night we met and I show her the drawing of three daisies. The full flowers, not just the petals, just like she said.

Showing Maia the tattoo I designed for her the day after we met made me just as happy, if not more, as I expected to be when I showed her. I know I should take everything she said and did with more than a grain of salt but I firmly believe alcohol lowers our defenses, so her reaction was the most genuine I could've received and I could not have been more pleased. I always make an effort to live selflessly and humbly but my art is my weakness. I live for compliments on my art as I consider it the truest representation of my self and my mind. I love it, can't get enough of it. And hearing such a beautiful soul like Maia compliment it goes straight to my head. I think I could die happily if she liked it enough to get it drawn on her body forever, which I recognize is melodramatic, but I truly would not know what to do with myself if this grieving girl next door connected with my art that deeply. If it helped her. I suppose only time will tell if she meant it when she said she wanted it tattooed as soon as possible or if it was a drunk rambling. My only focus since she showed up on my doorstep has been keeping her safe. I could see her getting progressively drowsier and shortly after showing her the tattoo design, I gently guided her to my queen sized bed, making sure she was comfortable as possible. When I was sure she was out, I ran downstairs to collect a few things for her, just in case, a bucket, a water bottle and a bottle of painkillers before I left the room with the door slightly cracked and Luna keeping watch over her while I went downstairs and passed out on the couch.

I inevitably woke before her, her body was in desperate need of rest from the previous night so I went about my morning as I usually do, making myself tea, having a light breakfast before settling in in my art studio with a teacup to add to the ever present mound of dirty dishes, all the art supplies I've acquired over the years and my stream of thoughts. I get comfortable and begin to sketch a drawing of Maia, of a beautiful girl in deep pain as she falls asleep, as her facial muscles relax and the weight on her shoulders is set aside for a few blissful hours. As I sketch to my heart's content and stay alert for any sounds of movement down the hall, I recognize how serial killer-esque this could come off as a girl is passed out drunk in my bed while I draw her, you know, passed out drunk in my bed. I fully recognize how that could feel creepy but I've always felt that art is something I should never even try to repress. I should never censor or filter it, I know from past experience that it never turns out how I like it if I have other people's opinions in my head.

After about an hour after I started sketching, I hear rustling down the hall. Although all my instincts are telling me to run to her, to make sure she's ok, to hold her hair back as I hear my bathroom door clicking shut, I hold myself back. Luna comes in to my studio, meowing and rubbing against my leg, as if trying to tell me to check on Maia but I don't. Not yet. I know this is a careful balancing act, because I'm sure she must be embarrassed and maybe she even has regrets about last night which is the last thing I want. So I need to show her I care, that I'm glad she came to me, that I'll take care of her whenever she needs it, but I also can't smother her, I've found that only worsens someone's embarrassment. Instead, I take my time (although each moment feels like hours) and go downstairs, pouring her a cup of tea, arranging some cream and sugar for her and grabbing the blandest food I could find in my pantry. I take these upstairs, knowing she'll likely still be in the bathroom, and I quietly leave them on the bedside table. And, as much as it goes against every instinct I have, I tiptoe back down the hall to my studio, leaving both doors wide open so she can see me when she's ready and should she look. And I try my goddamn best to focus on my art once again.

I'm trying so painfully hard to minimize any embarrassment or regret she could be feeling this morning that although I had returned to the piece in front of me, in my favorite room in the world with the sunlight pouring dreamily through the window, I still feel somewhat tense, anxiously awaiting her reaction. I honestly don't know if she'll even acknowledge me or if she'll just run. If she does, it's certainly not my place to feel upset about it but I want to believe that last night changed something. What that something is, I don't entirely know, nor do I entirely want to know but what I do know is I only want to see more of her. After a painfully long time, I hear the bathroom door open once more, which makes me happy, thinking that she's both feeling slightly better and hopefully coming to spend some time with me. My intuition that something changed and grew between us last night seems to be confirmed as I hear her feet padding down the hallway rather than down the stairs. Luna immediately hops off the window ledge she had just settled down on, trotting over to the girl in the doorway (it's already clear to me who she'd choose between Maia and me, the traitor).

I try not to let on that I was waiting and hoping we'd be in this position to have a conversation and I let her speak. She says just about exactly what I expected her to, thanking me for taking care of her and apologizing profusely. I let her finish before shifting my body slightly so I can see her while I'm talking to her. Even after being as drunk as she was last night and even after vomiting in my bathroom she still looks so incredibly beautiful. It's not surprising but it does take self control to not be completely immersed in her natural beauty. I give her a soft smile, choosing my words carefully. "Maia... it's really no big deal at all, I'm happy to help in any way I can, really." I tell her, my voice soft and creaky from last night's rest. I realize those aren't the most profound, poetic words in the universe but I hope she can feel how genuinely I meant it. I know there's very little I can do to influence the way she feels but it hurts me nonetheless to think she could have regrets when all I felt was happiness. I truly couldn't be happier with what had happened between us last night, her current hangover excluded of course.

"Is there anything I can get you? Then we don't ever have to talk about last night if that's what you want. Promise." I offer, wanting to help her but not smother her. Of course I don't want to forget last night happened but I don't even know how much she remembers of it. I considered bringing up the tattoo but decide against it. If she remembers seeing it and truly likes it enough to have it done, I hope that she'll bring it up herself, otherwise I'll keep my promise and not talk about anything that happened last night. And I certainly don't even think about bringing up the kiss we shared, no matter how mind-shattering it was on my end. Typically I'm kind of a "go with the flow" person but today I really have to fight myself to keep that up, all I want to do is talk about everything that happened last night and I want to talk about her and me and all the endless possibilities that lie before us. And that certainly attests to how special Maia is and how badly I want to see more of her, no matter the circumstances.

As I observe her movements I am relieved beyond words to see some color return to her cheeks, and although I'm no expert, she seems to be feeling better as she picks up my cat that probably already likes her more than she likes me. It seems she's not going to turn and run like I was fearing would happen after the perfunctory "thank you"s and "I'm sorry"s were through. There are about a million things I could say to her but I know when to shut up and listen, and I know she deserves my full attention as I wait anxiously for any kind of indication from her about where we go from here. My intuition has rarely failed me but I prepare myself for the worst anyway, the worst being that this is the last encounter we'll have in the foreseeable future. But I know how important it is for me to let her call the shots, for her to be in control of where this goes, if it goes anywhere at all. She's grieving a lover, and although I've never lost a lover in the way she has, I know grief and I know all too well that her healing process is no one's but her own. It's especially not the stupid neighbor boy next door's place to tell her where she should be in her own healing, what she should do.

As I listen to her words pour out, her voice sweet like honey, I feel a grin starting to spread from ear to ear. The words she speaks are bold and true and the most I've gotten from her in the short time I've known her. Not only am I ecstatic to hear that she remembers everything that happened last night, that she didn't want to do what she did last time - which I can only assume is in reference to her disappearing act - but I also feel a deep sense of pride that she seems like she's ready to take back her life, rather than letting her grief carry her where it may. I can't speak for her and say whether this is progress for her, but it feels like progress to me, it feels miles away from the aching heart I met all those weeks ago.

When she's finished speaking, I have so many words in my head I don't know where to start, but I start anyway, not entirely sure where I'm going but knowing what I want and knowing what I need to tell her. "First of all, you don't owe me anything at all, ever." I say straight away, clearing that up. I don't know if she meant she owed me a favor for taking care of her or she owed me an explanation for her behavior, but either way she doesn't owe me anything at all. I'll gratefully accept anything she gives me, but I will never make demands of her, nor will she ever be 'indebted' to me. "and I don't want you to do what you did last time. But I don't know what you need right now. Whether that's a friend, a loyal neighbor or something more. But I can tell you that whatever you need, whenever you need it, that's what I'll be. I promise." I tell her, my art supplies now cast aside, the piece I was working on pushed completely to the back burner so she had my complete, undivided attention.

"But maybe most importantly, I want to know how serious you are about this tattoo." I add with a cheeky smile, finishing on a lighter note, but still an important one to me. If I am to consider my art an extension of self, which I do, I want to know how true her words were about the tattoo I designed for her.

The events of this morning certainly wasn't what I was expecting, but I'm still quite pleasantly surprised. I knew something had changed last night, that I wasn't just imagining it (besides the obvious change of the kiss that we shared) but I still was prepared for the worst. It's always "just in case" in my world. And yet, here she still is, her demeanor a complete 180 in the best way possible from the first time I met her. Here she is, telling me that she remembers everything about last night, that she remembers the tattoo I designed for her, perhaps one of the most personal works of art I've created to date, certainly one of my favorites. I had to be sure that it was perfect enough to be etched into this perfect girl's skin for life. Not that she ever trusted me with that responsibility, she never asked me to design her a tattoo, but I still held my work to the standard, pretending the whole time that she had flat out asked me to design her tattoo. And she likes it as much as I had hoped she would, even sober, even hungover, she tells me she's 100% serious about getting it done, that she would if she could right now. I can barely contain my excitement but I ask her to be absolutely sure this is what she wants permanently on her perfect skin, because if she is then.... well I just might know a guy. You don't have as many tattoos as I do without knowing who to go to, without finding that tattoo artist you'd trust with your life.

Once I get confirmation that, yes, she is absolutely sure about this, and yes, she's absolutely sure about this, I hit her with a brisk "Well, what are we waiting for then?" giving her a sly smile and quick wink. I stand up, setting my own tea cup aside and grabbing my sketchbook, tearing out the design, before walking past her and out of the room, grabbing my wallet and car keys, pausing to look at her to imply that we were indeed going right this very moment. Miraculously she agrees for no real reason other than I assume her newfound (or maybe re-found would be a better way to put it) spontaneity and excitement. Thankfully, my tattoo artist isn't a long drive, although I have no reason to believe she would back out at this point. I have no idea what the significance of the daisies are for her, but I'd bet money on it being a kind of tribute to her former lover, her answer seemed like something she had thought about before, something she was maybe casually planning to do anyway, and just needed the right design and the right push. I still don't know what we are, or what we'll be, nor do I really need to know, but right now I'm being what she needs, that gentle nudge in the right direction.

Once I've parked the car and opened the door to the tattoo parlor for her, I can see my friend Jack lift his head from the front counter. I'm thankful that tattoo parlors are not normally crowded at 10:30 am, normally I would alert him ahead of time if it were me getting another tattoo but obviously I didn't really have the luxury of planning ahead this time. No biggie anyway, even if they were packed I know Jack would manage to find time to squeeze me in. I see him start to give his obligatory "hi welcome to my tattoo parlor" speech when he sees a young blonde girl walking in, and then he notices me, a friendly smile across his face as we greet each other with the standard "hey man, long time no see, how you doing?". He asks me to introduce him to Maia, giving me that raised eyebrows look as in "who's the pretty lady?". "Jack, this is Maia, she's my... neighbor" I say, ignoring his obvious implications that Maia and I were together in any kind of way. I did still hesitate with what to call her, I certainly wouldn't call her anything even remotely romantic, and I really wanted to call her my friend, but I opted for the simple truth, just to be safe. "Maia wants to get a tattoo, designed by yours truly, and I told her she's in luck because I know the best tattoo artist around." I explain to him casually. Realistically speaking, Jack isn't just the best but he's the only tattoo artist I trust, but that's neither here nor there.

I admire so much about Maia but especially in this moment I am almost blown away by her excitement, her energy, her spontaneity, and of course the fact that this is my art that she's getting inked on her body forever only heightens the excitement I feel just to be here with her. Just to join her for this monumental occasion, more often than not, getting your first tattoo is equal parts terrifying and exhilarating and I'm just basking in the honor of being the person she's chosen to share it with, that the sketch I threw together only hours after we met is the one she wants. And since I'm a tattoo addict, as she knows, I hope I'll be the best guide imaginable. I hand Jack the sketch in my hand, and he takes it without saying a word, another reason he's the only person I trust with the canvas that is my skin, and sketches is effortlessly on the stamp, as if I had drawn it myself. Sure I may have come up with the design but Jack is about a hundred times more talented than I am since he's able to transfer it onto skin like it's nothing, identical to the sketch on the paper.

I realize this may be coming at Maia a little fast, but she doesn't let on that she has any doubts until the tattoo gun grazes her skin for the first time. I had gotten somewhat distracted in the tattoo parlor, for obvious reasons it appeals to my artistic senses, and I tried to keep a respectful distance while Jack was prepping Maia since this was to be a ribcage tattoo and the last thing I wanted to do was make her needlessly uncomfortable by staring at her skin with her shirt lifted. So, for that reason, I was wandering the shop, observing and admiring the art that lined every inch of this place throughout the preparation process. Only when I heard the familiar buzz of the tattoo gun and I heard Maia utter a curse word under her breath was I pulled out of the trance this place had me in and I realize she'd probably be better off with me next to her distracting her, despite the fact that seeing this much of her skin feels like some kind of invasion of privacy to me.

I calmly grab a nearby stool and slide up next to her, on the opposite side of Jack of course, so he can do his thing without me in the way at all. Without really thinking twice about it, I grasp Maia's hand, the one closest to me, and sandwich it gently between both of mine, glancing at Jack's work so as not to make this moment feel too tense. If she needs something to hold onto, that's exactly what I'm here for. In another attempt to perhaps ease her pain, I engage in casual conversation, not all that different from the conversation Maia and I had that first night, when she first told me about the daisies. "This already looks amazing, Jack is about a thousand times more talented than I am. I mean I designed it sure but he replicates it impeccably. And on human skin, nonetheless, way more difficult than I could ever do" I say, completely rambling on purpose. "How long have you wanted to have this done, Maia?" turning the conversation over to her, allowing her the distraction of lightly conversing if it would help her. Jack shoots me a quick look, I know he'd prefer his clients not to talk or laugh in case it causes a slip up but I simply shrug in return. I'm confident enough in his abilities that he won't be thrown off by a little conversing, and I'd risk slight frustration from my friend if it helps ease her pain slightly.