Charlie has no such reservations and tucks into the sandwich as soon as it's laid in front of him. Part of it's hunger, part of it's the weird hollow feeling his medication leaves behind, but mostly he wolfs it down because the faster he can eat it, the sooner he can get out of the cramped bistro and back to the bookstore. Which means he's wiping his plate the heel of the sandwich bread long before Chloe is even halfway done with her soup.

It doesn't take long for him to get a little fidgety, though to his credit he does try to mask it: attempts to hook his elbow on the back of the chair, but finds the space occupied by someone's back. He quickly crosses his arms instead, stretching his good leg out as far as he can under the little table without threatening to trip passerbys.

"So, how's the soup?" It's the kind of droll small talk that practically screams he's distracted and only half invested in what's coming out of his mouth (if that). "Smells good."