Odd. Girls always tended to like Loki. Or maybe Paul was just a little more observant in that regard, watching the way good ol' god fearing girls would look at the Other ones, the Bad Kids from the boys home across the way. It's Loki's brow, probably. Or the curve of his distinct nose, or that strong chin. The hair that always--even now--threatens to escape from being slicked back at any moment. The complete and utter certitude when it comes to jumping into the fray, wild eyed and desperate and manic and alive, truly and utterly alive and in the moment.

For as observant as Loki is, Paul has to wonder--not for the first time--how much of that he was aware of. Paul caught it right away. Probably, he thinks, because he looked at Loki the same way those girls did.

The question is levied at him and he shakes his head. There was a girl--beautiful, with a pixie cut and a good kid and a husband that tried to do right. He wonders if she got the message he left, still sees her horrified face as the elevator doors shut. More proof of who he is, who he'll always be. Loki, though...

"Not interested," he finally confirms it verbally. It's not a lie.

"Give me your number."