“Most people in Atlanta don't have an accent. It's pretty urban. A lot of people speak gangsta, though," I add jokingly. "Fo' shiz," he replies in his polite English accent. I spurt orangey-red soup across the table. St. Clair gives a surprised ha-HA kind of laugh, and I'm laughing too, the painful kind like abdominal crunches. He hands me a napkin to wipe my chin. "Fo'. Shiz." He repeats it solemnly.Cough cough. "Please don't ever stop saying that. It's too-" I gasp. "Much.""You oughtn't to have said that. Now I shall have to save it for special occasions.""My birthday is in February." Cough choke wheeze. "Please don't forget.”

“Hi," (cough), "my name is Jasmin Field. I'm a journalist. So don't piss me off. Ha ha. And um - well, I can't really act. Ha ha." No one laughed.”

“Fo' shiz.”

“Have you ever kissed anybody?" he asked and took a sip.I smirked. "There aren't a whole lot of opportunities in the digital world. I did practice on my hand once. It didn't do anything for me".Justin coughed on the water he was swallowing and I slapped my hand over my mouth."Did I just say that aloud?" I mumbled.He was half coughing, half laughing. "Yes, you did", he managed to say.”

“Don't cry, Ana, please," he murmurs against my mouth. "It was long ago. I am aching for you to touch me, but I just can't bear it. It's too much. Please, please don't cry.”

“The teeth must have escaped while you murdered the rest of it," said Bramble, cough-laughing into her napkin. "Ha ha ha! You know, sometimes I think Clover is harboring some deep, dark shocking secret. Fire poker! Ba-hahahahaaa!”