"Anytime you'd like," Ned says, without a second of hesitation, grinning to match. He grabs a pen from a cup on the counter, jots something down on a napkin and pushes it across the table to Ginsberg. "My number," he explains, perhaps superfluously, "Or you can just come by the Pie Hole. I'm not a hard guy to find." He's there anytime the shop is open, after all, and it's open most of the time.
Ned finds himself hoping Ginsberg doesn't wait too long; he doesn't ask for his number, doesn't want to presume. It's probably easier this way, anyway. Calls to his workplace might seem suspicious - ad agencies probably have secretaries who would ask why he's calling. Calls to him home would probably be similarly frustrated by the fact that his father, from the sound of it, is a nosy type.
"Well, I'd like it to be soon," he responds, completely honesty, sliding
the napkin the rest of the way across the table to him and holding onto it
like it's priceless. And to him, it is. This is the promise of there being
something more than just that evening. And he's pretty sure he'll be
stopping by the Pie Hole again.
He picks up the pen and writes something down on a napkin, too, his
handwriting surprisingly neat for someone so offbeat and creative. "That's
my office number," he explains, because Ned would be right in his
assumption that Ginsberg isn't inclined to give out his home number, not
when his father monitors calls so intently. "I share the office with a
couple people, but most of them won't ask weird questions. Okay, Stan might
ask weird questions, but he asks everyone weird questions. And our
secretary's okay, too. She won't suspect anything, and if she asks why
you're calling, just say you're a friend of mine. She'll be so surprised
that I have friends that she'll forget to be suspicious."
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Ned finds himself hoping Ginsberg doesn't wait too long; he doesn't ask for his number, doesn't want to presume. It's probably easier this way, anyway. Calls to his workplace might seem suspicious - ad agencies probably have secretaries who would ask why he's calling. Calls to him home would probably be similarly frustrated by the fact that his father, from the sound of it, is a nosy type.
no subject
"Well, I'd like it to be soon," he responds, completely honesty, sliding the napkin the rest of the way across the table to him and holding onto it like it's priceless. And to him, it is. This is the promise of there being something more than just that evening. And he's pretty sure he'll be stopping by the Pie Hole again.
He picks up the pen and writes something down on a napkin, too, his handwriting surprisingly neat for someone so offbeat and creative. "That's my office number," he explains, because Ned would be right in his assumption that Ginsberg isn't inclined to give out his home number, not when his father monitors calls so intently. "I share the office with a couple people, but most of them won't ask weird questions. Okay, Stan might ask weird questions, but he asks everyone weird questions. And our secretary's okay, too. She won't suspect anything, and if she asks why you're calling, just say you're a friend of mine. She'll be so surprised that I have friends that she'll forget to be suspicious."