Ned had every intention of getting up to get him that vodka and cranberry juice, but Ginsberg's subsequent question freezes him in place. He doesn't see any art behind it: it really seems as if it were a slip of the tongue. All the same, it's a hell of a thing to be asked in such a blunt way. Confrontational, even. Ned's not good with confrontational. He doesn't like either option. He could try lying, but he knows he's terrible at that, and it would really eliminate any possibility of this being a proper date. But he can't just say yes either, can he?

He looks around, surreptitiously, seeing if their conversation has caught anyone's attention. No one seems to have heard, or be looking in their direction. All the same, every bit of Ned's body language screams discomfort. Not the kind of discomfort that a straight man feels when being asked about his sexuality, either. He's certain that for anyone mildly clever, his reaction is answer enough.

There's an edge of fear to his voice when he asks, quietly, "Should I go?"