Not too far from the hospital, they are seated in a dimly lit bar.
He looked at his cane, "You're not going to ask?"
She looked at him, "Is it an issue?"
"Most of the world seems to think so," he said.
She shrugged, "I figured if it was you would have said something. I assume everything else still works, if you know what I mean. A leg's a leg." She shrugged again and took a swing of her drink.
He raised an eyebrow and went back to his drink. This girl was sharp. And interesting. A mystery. And if there was one thing he liked, it was a mystery.
"So your second PhD?" he starts.
She nods, "The first was in literature. But my undergrad was a double major of history and philosophy. Now I want a PhD in art history, emphasis in symbols."
"Very Da Vinci Code of you," Greg comments, "What's your I.Q.?"
"What kind of small talk is that?" she laughs.
"To do someone in is to kill them," he quotes.
She laughs more, "Pygmalion."
"Of course."
"So what's your I.Q.?"
"I'm not the one who had a doctorate at age twenty-two."
"What a has-been," she jokes dryly, draining her glass.
"Another?" he asks, already signaling the bartender.
The drink comes and she stirs it seductively, or so it seems to Greg.
"I'm not so good at small talk," she confided, "I always feel like just cut to the crap and stop being polite."
"I know what you mean," he says starting in on a fresh scotch.
"Empty compliments in everyday life. What's the point? Why can't people say what they mean?"
Greg laughs, "How did you ever get along with Jimmy?"
"We both needed to escape Bonnie. I wouldn't say it was a perfect relationship. I think we make better friends than lovers. I like him a lot but he is way too nice for me."
Soon enough, they decide to go out to dinner where more alcoholic drinks are consumed and then House invites her to his apartment.
"But you said you share an apartment with Jimmy. That might be a little awkward," she said.
"I would think you would get a kick out of that," he says leaning closer to her.
"Maybe I would," she whispers, holding his stare.
