Bill licks the blood from the waitress's forehead as she drowses, and she awakes with that curious focus she often has: "Do I taste different from other people?" He admits that she does, and asks what she is. "Well, apparently I'm not dead." She smiles weakly up at him, his confused and unbreakable gaze. "But what I am is telepathic. I can hear people's thoughts." Bill backs way up from her and this confession: "Even mine?" No. "That's why I like you so much. I can't hear you at all. You have no idea how peaceful it is after a lifetime of... blah blah blah..." Her eyes focus; her eyes focus on his, and she closes them again. Her head goes slack and he looks sweetly down at her. She opens her eyes again, feeling stronger, and laughs silently, trying to sit up of her own accord. There are slow violins, in the swampy night. It's the perfect place for a fairy tale about sex, and violence, and nature. He touches her cheek and helps her sit against a trunk: "May I ask you a personal question?" She goes into Alice mode: "Bill. You were just licking blood out of my head. I don't think it gets much more personal than that." Valid. "How do you manage a social life with men your own age? Their only thought must be..." Men are beasts. She explains she doesn't date, and remembers a few times she broke this rule.
One betrayal, as she poured mustard on her burger (Man, I can't wait to see her naked. I wonder if she's a natural blond. Nothing worse than a blond with a big, black bush...): that one got a squirt of mustard to the face, out of the blue, and was shocked, and pissed. Not every guy was a pig, though: (... kind of girl I could marry and spend the rest of my life with. And never have those thoughts of Matt Damon... Jake Gyllenhaal in Jarhead, with that little Santa hat...). That time, she got out of the car and never looked back.