Smoke rings, like he's fancy. She raises her shoulders in a noncommittal sort of shrug, even if she knows he's got her pegged.

"Balanced the books for a hardware store in between handjobs," she deadpans, gesturing with the cigarette clutched between her fingers. "Lot more work, numbers. Wanna survive, not bust my goddamned balls writin' in a ledger all day."

She regards him for a moment, flicking a little ash into the hearth. "Did you work at all, Mister Zane?"

Somehow she feels like their definition of 'work' might be different.