[if she takes note of the way he smells, she gives no indication of it. the scent is a familiar one; her father was an auto mechanic before he died, and her first job in high school was at the same shop, running the front counter and answering phones, saving up every dollar she could to fund her escape from the dead prairie town where she was born.]

Good vodka it is, [she nods, and reaches for a clear bottle from the top shelves. at nearly six feet tall, she has an easier time retrieving it than some of her shorter coworkers would.] How did you want it - neat, on the rocks? I’m guessin’ you’re not really into mixers, but I do guess wrong some of the time.