"Walking's good," Ned says, simply. He doesn't know what it is about Ginsberg's nervous loquaciousness that makes him more sparing of words; perhaps, unconsciously, he does it as a sign that he isn't put off by the chatter, that he's happy to listen, that in cases like this Ginsberg's nervousness is not infectious. After all, he's found that he can temporarily quell those moments of anxiety with a short answer and a smile. So that's what he does - agrees and smiles, bright and wide. It's a different smile that the one he uses for customers, or acquaintances.

The little coffee shop is busy enough, but in a few moments Ned's bought them two hot chocolates and they are out on the street once more, clutching the warm styrofoam in their hands, sipping as they stroll. It's nice, to be able to walk slowly and look at the various sights. To hold back a laugh when Ginsberg gets foam in his mustache.

"You don't have to be interesting every second," he says, after a few minutes, his mind circling back to what Ginsberg had said, "Just spending time with you is nice enough. So please don't worry so much about trying to dazzle me every second, alright?" He knows it might come off sounding critical, so he says it as gently as he can, as warmly. Of course, he knows just telling Ginsberg not to be antsy isn't really helpful, but he wants him to know he's not some client or imagined audience with a two-second attention span, who he needs to thrill or else he'll move on to something better.