The two continue walking in silent, confirming in Presley's mind that the man beside her, Mr. Crankshaw, doesn't mind the comfortable stillness of the air. Well, stillness as far as communication goes, for a light breeze does stir the air now and again, as do the familiar noises of the area: bicycles, chatting tourists, cars driving by, birds singing, etc. Honestly, the sounds aren't that different than what one may find in any neighborhood. Well, perhaps not any neighborhood- there weren't really many birds singing outside of Presley's old front door, but that was because they didn't live in an area where there was much in the way of shrubbery or anything else that could be used for the sort of birds which bother to sing for the world. Not that Presley had ever minded growing up in a more urban area- the pulse of the people on the sidewalks and the constancy of the noise had been a very soothing thing for her as a child, despite her own quiet nature. She doesn't dwell much on such things anymore, but visits home do bring back a certain sort of nostalgia for her home city, and once or twice she has wished that she had gone to a school there rather than here, and then gotten a job in the familiar place. Regrets are soon followed by observations that, even in such a large city as Chicago, one cannot find everything and properly branch out.
Although, this particular neighborhood is slightly lacking in diversity, itself, the blonde young woman notes as she watches yet another pair of white, upperclass people walk by, drinking their Starbucks coffees and chatting cheerfully. Her eyes flicker downwards to observe that the man is keeping pace with her rather easily. He isn't particularly tall, but seems accustomed to walking briskly, just as she is. This is something which she can certainly appreciate. She herself is quick to register his introduction and question, giving him a nod in response to his comment about her already knowing his name. Does that make him uncomfortable? Not knowing something about someone, when they know about him? I didn't really go into too much information on people besides Olivia- hardly any, actually. But it does seem to. I suppose he is the sort who likes to always know something about others, or does so accidentally. That's a bit dangerous, but I can handle it. As soon as we reach the house, I'll melt into the wallpaper as usual, and he won't notice a thing when it's time for me to do my job, even she, observant as she may be, doesn't note the slight bitterness in her own inner voice as she thinks about melting into the wallpaper, as she usually does. It is more of a 'choose-to-ignore' situation, though.
"Yes, Mr. Crankshaw, I know your name," she glances over, seeing that he is now looking at her, waiting for an answer to his inquiry after her own name. For a slight moment, she almost feels as though she is being interrogated, despite the question being so very basic and typical.
"Floyd. Presley Floyd," she informs him, her voice soft but almost business-like in its tone. Of course, her tone is constantly shifting and adapting to the situation, almost like a camouflage of sorts, although it only serves to match the voice to its surroundings. She never even realizes she is doing it, part of what makes her have little to no presence to the average person- the little things, tiny adaptations, that make her seem as though she belongs so much that she is inseparable from the scenery, and thus easily overlooked. I suppose I should tell him what my job is. Well, he hasn't asked, so it doesn't particularly matter, then.
Her thought process, little inner decisions like that, are another thing that make her so bad at small talk. Unless one manages to latch onto a topic she is passionate about, they may have difficulty getting her to keep a conversation going for more than the exchange of basic information. They make it up a hill, and Presley checks her phone for the time. They've been walking for maybe five minutes now and are still, by her estimations, approximately twenty or so minutes away.
We're going to miss the meeting, she notes, glancing up towards the sky for a moment before looking back towards Danny. Of course, they didn't actually miss the meeting in the end, just ended up showing their faces a bit late. When they did arrive, Presley went immediately to sit down in the back, unnoticed by most, as usual. It was long and mostly held information that she already knew, but sat through anyway. By the end of it, including the crew meeting, she has gotten all of the information that she needed, if any of it wasn't already known to begin with.
I suppose it is probably alright that I missed part of it, Presley thinks, standing up slowly and identifying all of the people around her quite easily, able to at least recall first names.