"I don't think Rilke woke up and knew he would be a household name." She shrugs, and pours some of her attention over to the menu. She has yet to order the same thing twice, in fact, she seems to be on some quest to make her way through every beverage and most of the snacks. There is a standee on the table advertising cinnamon rolls, and she would lie if she said those did not sound tempting. "Are you writing for yourself or are you working on getting published? Both?"

Now that she has begun this talk, it seems to net around him, as if she is a fisherman with little social graces – or no practice with the idea that someone might not be this interested in a conversation with her – and he is a dolphin merely trying to swim along.