"So, where're you from?" he asked, simply because it was ground that had to be covered at some point during the evening.
"Oh, all over. Boston, New York, Georgia, South Dakota, L.A., Seattle, Phoenix... I sort-of hopscotched around my whole life," she answered without looking up.
"You a military brat?" he asked, because it was the obvious answer.
"Am I that obvious?" she asked, now intrigued.
"Oh, I don't know. Tough as nails woman making her way around the city with no help from anybody. I guess I figure that kind-of fierce independence usually starts young."
"Well, I guess you're right. Are you always this good at reading people?" she asked.
"It sort-of goes with the territory, you know?"
"Yeah, I imagine it's an occupational hazard, huh? So how'd you get into journalism anyway?"
"Um... indirectly. I liked writing but I was never any good at fiction. I could think of a lot of different angles to look at something that was already there but I could never figure out how to draw something from scratch. I tired, you know. That's what I went to school for. I mean, not that writing isn't writing to some extent but the program I was in didn't really give much credit to non-fiction. It wasn't until I went on my summer abroad that I found people who appreciated what I could write."
"And where was that?"
"London. Typical, I know. But I always wanted to go."
"Well, it makes sense for a writer."
"I guess," he said, and smiled at her.