This particular wing of the museum is dedicated to pottery. Old things, twisted things, shards of things, painted things, things things.

A girl, complete with bulky green coat and a brown ponytail (the hood being down, you understand), is sitting on a bench against one wall, sketching in her notebook. She does this, you see. She's young-seeming, with that half-finished soft look that teenagers get, a gawky expectancy, an energy.

Her current target is a greek vase, tall and slim and sinuously haughty, if it's possible for pottery to be haughty.

The room is quiet, with a faint tang to the air - the smell of old clay. Her breathing, the rush and flow of the tides, doesn't echo. This room swallows sound, rather than multiplying it.

Old pottery.

You know who doesn't care about old pottery?

Well, lots of people, but more specifically?

Glenn.

So then why was he here? Good question. If you asked him, he might say he likes to try new things, or everyone should appreciate the past, or maybe evena simple boredom excuse.

Why was he really here?

He was nosy. The old pieces of pottery had writing on them, and he was reading the old notes. Mostly it was just the names of the potter, but sometimes it was something more interesting, like, "This is the story of Someboditus; he killed a lot of people, was stabbed in the shoulder, and died."

So really, he was just bored.

It showed in his appearance. He'd just thrown on some ratty green tshirt and some jeans that looked ready to retire. Over that he'd thrown on a coat, black and boring. His hair looked vaguely unwashed and there was a smudge of ink on the side of his nose.

If he'd known the ink was there, he would have flipped.

The (probably) guilty pen was being twirled in his hands, from one to the other.

Glenn stopped in front of a particular piece, tall and stretched looking. There was some kind of unfaithful wife story on it, but all the good parts seemed to have rubbed off over the years. His small frame was just enough to hide most of it, mostly because he was so close to it.

A whisper of cloth on cloth, the low sound of a pair of jeans just this side of new, the click of shoes on a stone floor.

The faint sound of breath, just behind him.

Two more steps, to the side but still behind.

Pencil on paper, quick and light. Sketching.

The ink is a nice touch, she must say.

Pausing his peering, Glenn turned his head slowly. He started peering at her.

"Excuse me," he said, his voice carefully devoid of any apology. "Was I in your way?"

For some reason, her indirect, effective approach to the problem bothered him.

"Don't turn your head, now I can't see that ink on your nose."

I do believe she's irritated.

"Look, just keep looking at the vase, okay?" She doesn't make conversation with her models. It would be like making conversation with, oh, that vase.

Conversation isn't the point of a good model.

"Vase -- ink -- what?"

He straightened, turned to face her, crossed his arms, and narrowed his eyes.

He looked very much like a kid about to throw a tantrum.

"Beg pardon?" He always said that when he wanted to sound haughty. His mother used to say it.

She sighs.

Why are the interesting-looking ones always dense?

"Look. I was drawing the vase. You got in the way. Now I'm drawing you. You have ink on your nose. I can't see it. Turn your head the other direction."

Pause.

"Please."

Bossy?

Maybe. Just maybe.

He frowned.

He rubbed his nose. It did nothing to the spot, of course.

"Well, since you said please, and all." Tone: sarcastic. Body: Not moving.

"I did say please." Some people have no appreciation for courtesy, you know that?

"And you're being rude."

Right. He is being rude.

"I'm being rude?"

He started swearing at her in greek, then caught himself. Took a deep breath.

"I don't model unless I'm paid."

This is a lie.

He doesn't model.

Pause.

She isn't really sure how to respond to being sworn at in greek, honestly.

She could be offended, or she could be a giddy teenager.

Let's go with giddy teenager.

"What language was that?"

Innocent interest, and of course he's going to answer her. Anyone reasonable would answer a reasonable question like that.

Also, she demands an answer. She's a forceful little lady.

"Greek."

he did answer. He was thrown off track.

"Awesome! What does it mean?"

Suddenly, she's decided to learn greek.

A bit of a whimsical child, is Swallow.

"Uh."

How to put this?

"It means that I don't model."

Basically, rough translation.

"Uh-huh."

She is skeptical.

"So which of the words meant model, huh?"

Calling his bluff, see.

He repeated a swear that meant, roughly, 'spawn of chicken-shit'.

He glared.

She thinks about this, repeats the word softly to herself, tasting the texture of it, and then informs him ever-so-solemnly, "I don't believe you."

Those big, innocent brown eyes don't look so suspicious. It's really a terrible thing, that such a little girl is so cynical about such trustworthy, trustworthy people as complete strangers who swear at her in greek.

Her accent is horrible.

"Why not?"

He rubbed at his nose again.

"Stop that. It looks good on you."

Yes, she's changed the subject again.

Yes, she's giving orders again.

He paused, hand in mid-rub.

"What? No, it makes me look twelve."

He does not like looking twelve.

Maybe he should get a tattoo.

"It's cute."

...I think Swallow likes older men.

Hem hem.

"So stop rubbing at it."

Defiantly, Glenn licked his thumb and rubbed furiously at his nose. This managed to fade the ink, but also spread it out over a larger area.

"Who are you?"

"I'm Swallow Teresa Storm, at your service."

She flirts a curtsey, or what she imagines one might have been like.

"And what is your name, kind sir?"

She's being silly again.

Kind sir? He just cursed at her in greek. And then lied about it.

"Glenn Butler."

And what kind of name was Swallow, anyway?

He doesn't even bow, or offer a hand shake.

Pause.

"You look like a butler."

Now she's amused all over again.

"Even with ink on your nose."

Blink.

Blink.

Blink.

He doesn't know howto respond to that. Oh, thank you, miss, will that be all?

"Huh?"

Not to mention he's all unclean today.

"A butler. A cute little butler man!"

She is delighted by this.

And giddy. Hyper, even.

No one should ever give this girl sugar.

Glenn is positively smoldering. He wonders if the dust-be-gone spell he know would work on a bigger scale.

He grumbles in greek again, then tries in english.

"I am not a butler, and I don't look like a butler."

"Yes you do. Pretending you don't won't make it any less true."

She disapproves of self-deception.

That or she's being silly again.

Probably the latter.

"No I don't. I don't have a tux on, no hoity-toity look on my fair, and definitely no slicked back hair."

He rubbed his nose again.

"And I absolutely don't walk funny. Or talk funny."

There is a significant pause.

It says you do so talk funny, funny little butler man. Hee.

She's trying not to laugh at him now.

She has one of those 'I'm trying not to laugh at you' expressions on, even.

Glare.

"I do not."

How do you defend yourself against something like this?

"Ou-yay o-day alk-tay unny-fay."

Pig latin.

She's given in to the urge to act her age, you see, and she's running with it so very, very far.

So very far.

Glenn crossed his arms again and thought about walking away.

But this was his pride here.

"No."

Instead of walking away completely, he walked over to another vase and started reading it.

A boring family tree.

She follows him.

"Ignoring people is rude, Mr. Butler."

Just letting you know.

"So is bossing people around."

The little man still didn't turn and look at her. He was very interesting in how these ancient greeks were related to each other.

"You started it."

Swallow.

Darling.

Do not lie so incredibly blatantly.

Please.

Thank you.

Glenn scoffed. I mean, what else could he do?

"Did not."

Well, there's that.

"Did so."

Childish much?

But then, she is only fifteen. She can get away with it.