imaginary lines

edwin cho, for coyote valley rp.

[bandleglass]

#bandleglass, a dependent portrayal for @coyotevalleyrp. written by zeal ( 24, she/he, est. )

edwin cho, thirty-five, it specialist at sierra nevada memorial hospital.

[     intro+bio.     interactions.     visage.     connections.     ]

[engineeered]

if it hadn't been for the noticeable restlessness exhibited by the stranger, mick would have made a joke of some kind. the whole situation seemed to him as a set up for a ratatouille reference, but he doubted any jokes would land at the moment. remembering his own moments of torment and the teasing that came from friends and family, he huffed to stifle the laughter. while they were happening, the taunting felt unjustified and cruel, but now, in recollection, mick knew they were harmless. something to put a positive spin on a tough time.

after he'd opened the trunk and pulled out the bag of kitchen cloths, mick replied, "mmaybe, but i don't have anything i'm willing to offer a rat." the punchline too easy not to take, he finally leaned into his instinct of lightheartedness and added, "not unless he's gonna use it to whip us up a meal of authentic french cuisine as a thank you." mick smirked, amused by himself, almost forgetting the gravity of the situation.

pulling out a marinara-stained apron and handing it to the other, mick also peered into the car once he'd taken it. a shadow of movement sobered him up. he took out another apron for himself. "okay, maybe some food would help," he agreed, thinking if he had anything in his car, but coming up blank. "or some sort of game plan... what d'ya got?"

[bandleglass]

he shadows the other's movements, close enough to catch the scent of dust and leather off him, but not so close as to crowd. curiosity is a greedy thing—it eats at him, gnaws against the ribs, wants to know what this man carries that might tilt the situation back into something manageable. the quip lands—humor, brittle but appreciated, like striking a match in a damp cave. he lets it slip a chuckle, though it feels parched on the tongue, like a laugh dragged through sandpaper. still, better than letting the pressure cook him into something mean.

edwin does have a plan, though. half-formed. plans are good until they're not, and right now his head is somewhere between calculation and the low, ugly hum of doubt. that's when the apron appears in his hands.

"hold on—" this laugh is real, startled out of him before he can cage it. he lifts the fabric in question. "what are these for? protection?"

[ruinedxreverie]

“funny thing about doors,” she says, her voice slow, unbothered, as if she’s mulling it over like a theory instead of a punchline. “most of the time we think we’re the ones letting things in. truth is, they find their own way.” her gaze lingers on the hollow dark of the car, the faint scrape of claws still tucked somewhere in it. she doesn’t sound spooked, only intrigued, like the whole thing is a story unfolding that she doesn’t mind watching play out. she shifts against the car again, denim brushing metal, arms folding a little tighter as if to mark her place. “rats don’t need invitations. they’re opportunists. gaps, cracks, whatever little slip you didn’t see coming—” she lifts her hand, flicks her fingers toward the open air, “—they’ll find it. doesn’t matter if you’re edwin or the pope.” her eyes settle back on him, steady, something almost teasing tucked into the edges of her stare. “so maybe it’s not about how he got in. maybe it’s about why he stayed.” a pause, deliberate. the faint curl of her lips, not quite a smile, not quite a warning. “if i were you, i’d worry less about the entrance and more about what he thinks he’s owed.” the hush of the lot stretches again, only the buzz of a far-off light and the restless tick of metal cooling under the night air. then softer, like a secret she’s not supposed to share. “and between you and me? i don’t think he’s leaving until he gets it.”

[bandleglass]

it's all a little too melodramatic for his taste—edwin can feel his patience thinning like cheap thread. her words hang in the air, all whimsy and nonsense, as though rats were poets in fur, as though this one, this uninvited interloper, were owed some divine narrative of entry. edwin doesn't buy it.

he almost regrets asking for help at all, because now he's caught in the drift of someone else's odd sermon, their fondness for myth pressing on him like an ill-fitting coat. whimsy is a language he doesn't speak, not after a day like this. his muscles ache from hours of wear, his skull rings with static, and what he wants more than answers is the still quiet of being alone with his exhaustion.

"uh," edwin mutters, like a man already halfway gone, checking his phone screen for time. anything to keep his eyes busy. he exhales. "alright. you know, uh... you don't have to stick around, i'll... figure it out. thanks for your time."

[mndvx]

SHORTCOMINGS (2023) directed by Randall Park | written by Adrian Tomine ››› Justin H. Min as Ben Tagawa  

[kimnellie]

Nellie went through her stuff in the bags distractedly, trying to match what the man was saying. She didn't have peanut butter, nor nuts, nor seeds, but she did have something. "Oh, I have an apple! Do you have a knife of some kind? Maybe if we cut it up, the rat will have an easier time smelling it." She said, with a smile.

[bandleglass]

edwin yanks open the driver's side door, and he doesn't dare glance at the ground—won't risk meeting the bead-black eyes of that rat, skulking somewhere, waiting for its encore. his body moves faster than his nerves: center console flipped, fingers fishing past receipts and dust for the cold weight of a pocket blade.

he slips out of the car and offers the knife. "here—will this work?"

[mndvx]

SHORTCOMINGS (2023) directed by Randall Park | written by Adrian Tomine ››› Justin H. Min as Ben Tagawa

[ruinedxreverie]

she tilts her head, the quiet of the parking lot stretching out between them like a pause meant to let the absurdity settle. the rat shifts somewhere in the shadows of the open car, the tiny scrabble of claws muffled by the space and distance, and iris watches it with the same attentiveness she gives most things that don’t speak. finally, her voice cuts the hush, low and deliberate: “iris.” simple. no fanfare, no waiting for it to be absorbed. “winslow, if you’re feeling formal,” she adds, the corner of her mouth lifting just slightly, “but i wouldn’t recommend it.” then her gaze flicks back to him, sharp enough to pin him in place without touching, as if measuring whether he’s worth continuing the conversation. “and you are…?” she asks, slower this time, letting the question linger like the hum of a distant car engine. “i figure if i’m going to stand here, counting down your five minutes, i should at least know what to call the person who brought me into a rat hostage situation.” she lets a small, wry grin curl at the edges of her lips, not entirely mocking, more like acknowledging the absurdity of it all. she shifts her weight against the car, cool metal pressing through her jeans, arms folding loosely again. her gaze drifts toward the rat’s hiding spot, attentive, and she tilts her head as if she can already guess the little creature’s next move. “he’s not a terrible judge of character,” she continues, tone softening but still threaded with amusement. “if he takes a liking to you, maybe i’ll let it slide. if not…” she shrugs, a faint smile still lingering, “well, then you’re on your own. rats don’t negotiate, you know. they just decide.”

[bandleglass]

"edwin," he says, like he's signing a receipt for a package he never ordered, the corners of his mouth making the barest attempt at a smile—thin, unwilling, cracking at the edges.

his eyes flick back into the hollowed dark of his car, hunting for the twitch of a tail, the bead-glint of rodent eyes. edwin is convinced he'll know when the rat makes its break for freedom, but hope is a terrible sort of glue—it keeps him tethered there, checking and rechecking, like he's expecting divine intervention in the shape of an empty floor mat. god help him if he has to buy an entire jar of peanut butter for one freeloading trespasser.

"i don't think he knew who i was when he crawled into my car," he says, voice dipping into that liminal space between humor and horror. the thought unsettles him more than it should. "even if he did, i'm not sure it would've made much of a difference. i just—"

edwin's gaze drifts, scanning the front of the car like there's secrets in the curve of the bumper, in the dust along the fender. his hands twitch with the itch to do something, even as his mind circles uselessly.

"—wanna know how the hell he got in there in the first place." the words taste like an accusation, sharp-edged, hanging in the air as if the rat might answer.

[henry-isaacs]

the sun was finally starting to let go, painting the skies with a deep, deep red. long white streaks of clouds reflected golden hues, and henry, with a small breeze playing in his hair, tried to focus on them. today’s shift had been deathly, though not violent. those were the worst days: seniors giving their last breaths, youngsters overdosing, people crying. people sick. it had been an eternally busy day that started way too soon and ended way too late.

it was the reality of the job, no matter where in the country henry resided. death would always be present, looming over them all.

he exhaled, one long breath, as an old therapist had once advised him to do when thoughts like this were intruding on his mind. clearly, a change of ideas was necessary, and though usually he’d seek silence, maybe tonight he didn’t want to. maybe tonight he wanted to see people happy, laughing and milling about with their lives. just alive, and happy to be.

the pub had become one of his favoured places, the atmosphere a bit more crowded than the siren. he could still see outside while sitting at the bar, could still appreciate the softness in the last threads of the day. the bartender smiled at him, offering him his choice of usuals. he’d just ordered his preferred ipa when edwin sat down next to him, looking weary.

henry pushed down any desire to ask how he was feeling — edwin was an adult, not a child, and didn’t need an old man like him acting like a mother hen after a long shift. so to his first words, henry simply hummed as he raised the drink slightly. “there are days like these.” such platitudes, but henry had no energy left to offer more than that tonight.

“just a good ol’ american ipa, you know me.” henry was a creature of habit, and honestly, routines like these were probably what had kept him mostly sane all his life. the man shrugged, then fully turned his attention to edwin, offering a small smile that hopefully conveyed the worry he wasn’t acting on. “wanna talk about it?” well, he couldn’t turn it off completely... unfortunately for his young friend.

[bandleglass]

there were days like this, yes—slick with the kind of slow-burning misery that clings to the skin like humidity, seeping into the marrow. edwin had endured more of them than he cared to tally. still, he stayed. for the people, he told himself. for the thin but steady paycheck that kept his fridge stocked and the lights on. and, in no small part, for henry, whose arrival into edwin's life had been a gradual thing, like dusk edging in over water: hesitant, then inevitable. a proper friendship. enough to make a man, who had long since resigned himself to the idea of dying in the solitary quiet of an empty apartment, reconsider his own melodrama.

the bar's light is low, amber pooling like molten resin across the counter. edwin's whiskey sour arrives with a dull thud of glass on wood. he curls his fingers around it, cold condensation slicking his skin, and takes a measured sip.

"got a call from the lab," he starts, "said the system for processing test results was lagging so badly that results weren't printing. went to go check it out, then i got an urgent message from the icu. workstations kept disconnecting from the network, so they couldn't update patient records. then, radiology rings me up and tells me that their imaging software isn't loading scans."

he sets the glass down with a sigh that drags more from him than air.

"every time i thought i fixed one issue, another popped up. hydra's head after hydra's head. got it all sorted eventually, but… i was there for a lot longer than i wanted to be."

a dry chuckle slips out, sharp and self-deprecating. he looks down at the amber smear of his drink, then sideways toward henry; a kind of look that's equal parts weary and quietly grateful.

"and you?" he volleys back, tilting his head. "anything gnawing at you tonight?"

[ruinedxreverie]

“five minutes,” she echoes, like she’s tasting the number, deciding if it’s worth anything in a negotiation with a creature that doesn’t care about clocks. still, she shifts her weight back against his car, arms folding again like settling in for the watch. “sure,” she says, voice easy, a little dry, “but just so we’re clear — if he decides to make a run for it, i’m not throwing myself in front of him. emotional support, yes. human shield, no.” her gaze flicks toward the open door, the interior shadows swallowing up the rat’s shape, and she tilts her head like she might spot him moving if she stares hard enough. “you know,” she says after a beat, “there’s a chance he’s already decided this is home now. probably rearranging things in there. ordering curtains. changing the radio presets.” the corner of her mouth lifts at her own joke, though she doesn’t take her eyes off the car. “if that’s the case, we’ll have to start charging him rent. split it fifty-fifty. i’ll draft the lease.” her shoulder brushes the edge of his door as she leans closer, peering in again. “he’s not bad company, though,” she adds, tone softening with a faint thread of amusement. “quiet. doesn’t text too much. better than half the people i know.” then she looks back at edwin, one brow lifting just slightly. “but yeah, i’ll wait. somebody’s gotta be here to witness whatever this turns into. plus—” she jerks her chin toward the convenience store across the lot “—if he doesn’t vacate in five, we’re getting that peanut butter. your treat.”

[bandleglass]

somehow, edwin feels like this person has completely unspooled the story—lost the plot entirely—and he prays the incredulity doesn't leak onto his face. this is the penalty for inviting company into the odd, fragile theater of his life.

"i mean," he starts, voice kept by something between disbelief and careful mockery, "you're not supposed to throw yourself at him—he's supposed to run away." he tries to keep it neutral, neutral as one can while delivering a critique that smells faintly of catty. but it comes out like a question instead, trembling on the edge of confusion: who is supposed to be on whose page here? he shrugs the thought off, sharp and jagged. whatever.

he opens the car door, phone in hand, checking the time like it might lend structure to the absurdity of this moment. then he leans against the metal side, the chill seeping into his sleeve, waiting. quiet shuffling comes from inside the car. silent. for now. on his end, at least. awkwardly so. he drops his eyes to the cracked asphalt beneath his shoes, counting the tiny fissures, tracing them with his gaze like meditation.

"sorry," he murmurs finally, soft, hesitant, "what was your name?"

[bandleglass]

closed starter for @henry-isaacs. where: the salty goat.

he slides onto the stool next to henry, the motion more collapse than choice, a body letting gravity pull it down. the world tilts, uneven, and edwin feels the weight of the day pressing into his shoulders, settling in the hollows behind his eyes.

"damn," he rumbles, elbows braced against the countertop like it might hold him upright, like the wood could anchor him to something steady. "what a day." he says it aloud, tasting the exhaustion in the words, but even as he speaks, he knows—he knows—that whatever wreckage marked henry's day, it's probably worse. maybe infinitely worse.

the bartender slides over, and edwin orders a whiskey sour. he lets his gaze flick to henry then; to the one who had arrived first. his eyes trace the lines of a day etched into posture and expression. "what are you sipping on?"

[ruinedxreverie]

iris watches him lean in like maybe the angle’s gonna rewrite reality for him, arms folded now, one heel braced against the bumper of her car. the look on his face tells her everything she needs to know — this isn’t the kind of rat you talk down from a ledge, it’s the kind that’s already measuring the drapes in its new home. “well, first off,” she says, slow and deliberate, “not carrying peanut butter is your first mistake. amateur move.” the corner of her mouth tips, like she’s trying not to smile but failing just enough for it to show. she pushes off the car and strolls over to his, peering through the window with the kind of casual curiosity people usually reserve for yard sales or crime scenes. “huh. big one, too. he looks like he pays taxes.” her hand lifts, taps the roof of his car twice, like she’s knocking on a door. “so here’s your options: one, you open the door and let him decide if he’s done here. two, you leave it unlocked overnight, and hope he moves on to a nicer neighborhood. or three…” her gaze slides back to him, all mock-gravity, “we go to the gas station, grab a jar of skippy, and commit to the bit.” she straightens, tucking her keys into her pocket. “your call. i’ve got time to kill — but if we’re doing this, you’re buying the peanut butter and the post-rat drink.”

[bandleglass]

too many options. more than he'd expected, if he were honest. not many he actually wants to commit to, but choice isn't really his to claim here—not with the universe and a rodent conspiring against him.

his tongue rolls slow against the inside of his cheek, weighing resignation against irritation, before he finally pops the door open and steps aside. the gesture feels almost ceremonial—like holding open the gate to some petty little kingdom—and he grants the rat the courtesy of time. time to think about leaving. time to reconsider its trespass.

"five minutes," edwin declares, fishing his phone from his pocket, thumb brushing over the screen to check the clock as if punctuality matters to vermin.

he glances over to the other, voice dipping into something that might be humor if it weren't so frayed. "you think you could wait here with me? could use the emotional support."

[engineeered]

when mick used his car, it was because he knew he'd be out late or bringing back something heavy. tonight, the air was cooler than expected for a august evening. having not brought a jacket or anything remotely close to outerwear, the young man considered stuffing his hands in his pockets to warm them up. it's not that cold, he told himself, noting the short distance between him and the small, beat-up suv.

so focused on not wilting, he almost missed the stranger's own look of torment. when he heard their words, any lack of heat that mick had been confronted by weened away as adrenaline seeped in. he stepped around so he was able to peer into the other's vehicle.

"you won't believe this, but this happened to my bro back in high school." mick's reply had perhaps a little too much enthusiasm for what the situation called for, but the amusing details of the memory hit him harder than the ones of his fear and disgust from trying to help the friend. "i think i have something in my trunk that can help... capture it?" he pointed to his car with his thumb, thinking of the large bag of dirty aprons and rags he was going to wash in the morning.

[bandleglass]

gratitude doesn't begin to cover it—though the word feels flimsy here, paper-thin against the reality. maybe there's comfort in knowing this kind of wretched luck has bruised other people too, in this cruel, small, vicious world. misery loves company, and company, it seems, has a taste for vermin.

edwin breathes out—just the faintest slip of air, as though even his lungs are reluctant to draw attention. it's quiet enough that the other person wouldn't notice, but it still betrays him; a tiny fracture in the mask, a whisper of conscience.

"do you? god, that'd help a lot." the words tumble out on the back of a humorless laugh, brittle as glass. he leans in toward the window, squinting against the dark—black mats swallowing the light, every shadow a possible shape. somewhere in there is the rat. watching, maybe. waiting.

"do you think, like, maybe, some food would help?"

[kimnellie]

Amelia was already at that age when she didn't wanna hold hands anymore, and that was fine. What wasn't fine was that she kept walking ahead, trying to do as little as possible with all the groceries, leaving Nellie to carry a mountain of plastic bags she surely didn't feel like carrying either.

As she was passing by a man, she heard what he said and stopped dead in her tracks. "Amelia, stop!" she yelled, vaguely, and saw the teenager stop too and turn around, already rolling her eyes. "What can I do to help?" she asked. Nellie wasn't afraid of rats ever since and infestation in her house got her to actually deal with a truly absurd amount of rats, but she had a feeling the man beside her might be. "Maybe I can use something here to get it to leave your car." she said, going through one her shopping bags.

[bandleglass]

oh, god. the guilt hits quick, sharp—like biting down on something that isn't food. her groceries. her daughter. her time. her energy. it makes him want to shrink, to swallow himself whole, to insist he can just handle the damn thing alone and spare her the entanglement.

"maybe..." edwin's voice comes out softer than intended, frayed around the edges. "maybe i can leave the door open and i could bait it out with some food."

the idea hangs there as a meager, desperate, a flimsy peace offering to whatever tiny beast has claimed his car as its kingdom. he lists the possibilities as if reciting from a survival manual, eyes somewhere else. "peanut butter. nuts. seeds. fruit..."

[ruinedxreverie]

she had one foot in her car, keys between her fingers and the kind of sigh you exhale at the end of a long day when someone else becomes your problem. but the words stop her. not hey, not sorry to bother you, not can you help me for a second? — just: “there’s a rat in my car.” iris blinks once. then again. "well, shit." she straightens slowly, like someone trying not to spook anything — including him. the keys jingle faintly in her hand, caught between fight, flight, and whatever the hell this is. “you sure it’s a rat and not, like, a very aggressive possum? or your anxiety?” a beat. “’cause if it’s the last one, i can offer you a cigarette and a pep talk. but if it’s the first... you’re gonna owe me a drink.” she closes her car door again — not because she wants to help, necessarily, but because now she has to see how this unfolds. “what’s the plan here, rat whisperer?” iris tucks a curl behind her ear, leaning casually against her car like she’s got nowhere better to be. “you lure it out with peanut butter, or are we doing this the florida way and setting the whole thing on fire?”

[bandleglass]

there was no way in hell that what edwin had just come face-to-face with in his own car was an aggressive possum. not unless hysteria had taken a hacksaw to the memory and sanded off the details for his protection.

he leans in toward the glass, body tipping in a slow, sideways angle, as though shifting his perspective might change the truth crouched inside. the interior offers him nothing but shadows and the dim reflection of his own unease.

"no," edwin drawls, voice pitched somewhere between resignation and disgust, "it's definitely a rat." his gaze flicks back to her, flat but glinting.

"and i definitely don't carry peanut butter on me." he says it as though the very suggestion is an affront, some absurd requirement of adulthood he's failed to meet. a pause, then—something frayed and restless in the set of his mouth. "is there literally anything else that could work?—i... i just want to go home."

[xmarlboronights]

     Just wrapped up with some needless shopping and money wasted—thereapy, hello—Camila approached her car with an internal war going on inside her head. The brunette had been telling herself she could just turn around, go back in, and return everything. It might be embarrassing, she'd been through worse, though. She'd just hit the unlock button on her key fob and looked up, and that was when she saw him and her pace slowed to a stop.

Frown, partial confusion, and a general wondering of what was going on was a moving expression across her face. It took a moment before she scolded herself for staring and judging. Cami went to the trunk and dropped her shopping items into it and she still found her gaze fixing on him.

Then he said it. ❝ ⸻ Oh, ❞ was all that came out as she stood there stunned. A prickling, skin crawling sensation lightly began to tease her. On her tongue sat ❛ well, good luck with that ❜ yet they stayed stuck, lodged in her throat as she just continued to blink.

❝ You're serious? ❞ Maybe he was teasing—very strangely—or this was some weird fucked up prank. Immediately her dark brown eyes began scanning around for someone hidden with a camera, ready to pop out and laugh. ❝ For real? I mean, how ... how does a rat get into someone's car? ❞ And that question came from someone that had lived in New York for a good chunk of time.

[bandleglass]

her question could only be answered with this: fate. the great, gnarled hand of it, palm-down, pressing him into the strangest possible predicaments, as if the universe had decided to amuse itself at his expense.

if edwin knows anything about rats, it's that they can seep through spaces not meant for bodies. through slivers and seams, through the smallest betrayals in wood or stone. a foundation could be strong as bedrock and still they'd find the fault lines. a house might barricade itself with walls and weatherproofing, only for some specialist to crawl through the crawlspaces, flashlight in teeth, searching for the one hidden artery the vermin used to bleed in.

but how did that work for a car?

the thought alone is enough to curdle something in him. he will not check the air cabin filter. he will not lift the hood and peer into the engine's steel intestines. he knows—knows—they can get in from anywhere, and there are some truths you don't volunteer to confirm.

so he just sighs in some long, slow surrender to the absurdity.

"beats me." fingers rake through his hair, dragging at the roots, more exorcism than grooming. "i, uh… i don't know how to go about getting it out."

[bandleglass]

open starter: 4/4. @coyotestarters where: in a parking lot.

inconvenient things happen all the time: a shoelace coming undone, a phone gasping on 2% with the charger three rooms away, a coffee lid that looks secure until it baptizes your shirt in public. annoying, sure. manageable.

but this—this is a new layer of hell.

edwin shuffles in the narrow strip of space between his car and the other's, pops open the driver's door, then slams it shut without so much as leaning in. his top teeth briefly snag his bottom lip, grim, like bracing for impact that hasn't come yet.he pivots slowly, turning to the stranger who's just about to slide into their own car. there's no ceremony to it, no softening.

"there's a rat in my car," edwin announces. matter-of-fact. mostly to himself, but also as an explanation for why he's standing here instead of driving away like a normal person.

fuck—he's going to have to get it out. and god help him, he might actually need this person to help him bait the thing.

[xmarlboronights]

𝑶𝑷𝑬𝑵 𝑺𝑻𝑨𝑹𝑻𝑬𝑹 : 0/4

»» ⸻ late morning on a downtown sidewalk

»» ⸻ with anyone! @coyotestarters

     Truck parked at the curb with the intention to go inside and grab a few things before he headed to the ridge, Rocco left the windows down for Chelsea, his German Shephard Dog and companion, as he usually did when he made a stop somewhere. Nine times out of ten she came along with him just about anywhere and she was a good girl, curious and friendly with people while minding herself all the same. With a person here and there making a pass by along the sidewalk she'd sit patiently yet attentively in the passenger seat and watch them go by while Rocco grabbed something out of his bag he'd earlier placed in the bed of the truck.

When someone walked a little closer to the truck Chelsea popped her head out of the window. Not aggressively, just letting them know she was there, and maybe a tad too curious. ❝ ⸻ No worries, you're good, ❞ Rocco stated to the person, ❝ she won't bite unless you try to get in that truck without permission. ❞ There was a grin on his face, warm and pleasant, friendly enough to invite conversation while quietly letting them know the dog was in watch mode. ❝ What's up, you need help with anything—I didn't box you in, did I? ❞ Pointer gestured ahead indicating the car in front of his.

[bandleglass]

curse edwin's soft spot for animals—dogs, cats, anything with a pulse and a pair of trusting eyes—but god, it was always a better day when edwin spotted a dog in public. this one was no exception. but of course, he had to get caught nearing.

the stranger's gaze hooks him mid-stare, and the embarrassment blooms slow and warm, a flush just barely coloring his cheeks. edwin exhales a laugh that's all thin and frayed at the edges, the kind that hopes to fold itself into casualness. "no, not at all," he says, shaking his head as if to clear it, as if that might help. "just wanted to make sure she was doing alright in this weather." and it's not a lie, not really—not in the heat of summer.

there's a pause. softer now, almost reverent.

"she's beautiful. german shepherd, right?"