Any other day, any other time Wrench would revel in the disinterested response his admission draws from the woman. It's not often he's met with such a blasé retort. It ought to be refreshing, but the longer the stranger goes right along speaking at him, the less Wrench finds it welcoming and the more he thinks it's sheer stubbornness on her part to insist their interaction abide her comfort.

But that's fair, he thinks to himself. After all, he's the one who's goaded her into this little knife game. And he can already tell she's going to win that just as easily as breathing. Wrench watches her retrieve the blade. When she continues speaking, he crosses his arms and watches her. The tall man makes no effort to prove he can understand her, nor does he try to insist that he can't. His face is a passive mask, and when she starts to spin the knife in her hand, interest takes his interest in that direction instead. After a moment he holds up a finger and disappears to the bar. When he returns it's not with drinks, but with a handful of grapes instead.

Wrench stands near the throwing board and pantomimes chucking one of the spherical fruits in the air. With his free hand, he makes a motion like he's sending an invisible knife sailing through the air. A little bit of a different challenge, he thinks. If she's so good at reading him, can she judge the arc of his toss in the air and hit the grape before it hits the floor? He tosses the first one up.