Ginsberg's opinion on groups of dogs - and groups of humans - strikes Ned as depressingly accurate. But he doesn't let his mind linger on that; he nods his agreement and watches the way Ginsberg is feeling his own face, thinking that it's rather endearing. Should he feel bad about getting him this tipsy, when he'd said his tolerance was low? Is there anything sleazy about his actions, tonight?

Then again, he thinks, Ginsberg is a grown man, and he doesn't exactly seem like a shy, fainting flower. If he'd wanted to go, he would have gone. Bolstered by that thought, Ned draws in a slow breath, bracing himself to go on. "I only ask," he says, deliberately, feeling rather red in the face himself and not meeting Ginsberg's gaze, now, "Because I have a dog. A golden retriever. And if you were allergic or phobic it would be a bad idea to- to invite you back to my apartment."

He shifts uneasily now, hands twisting together in his lap, under the table. Half of his brain is screaming that this is a terrible idea. That this isn't like him, that it's too risky. That he's going to freak Ginsberg out, or at the very least lose his respect. But, just for once, his impulsiveness is winning out over his caution. There are a million factors which contribute to that, none of which Ned feels like examining at present.

His invitation isn't even an explicit one; it is sideways, is implied, is murmured in a hesitant, low voice.