03-18-2009, 11:46 AM
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Jefferson anticipated a level of privacy that accompanied her writing. He guessed it was some sort of journal--she didn't exactly strike him as the novelist type, if there was one such still--and while the concept of a personal diary was somewhat foreign and understood to the one-eyed man whose thoughts were perfectly discontent revolving around in his head at all times, he chose not to give her trouble for it. Even if he had, surely she would have retorted with something just as witty or frustrating. For some reason, he wouldn't have been surprised if she'd suggested he begin using some sort of journal himself, considering the thousand plagues in his mind, but she didn't know him well enough to remember that he could barely even read.
His reaction, sheepish. Jefferson shrugged his shoulders and glanced idly at the book still balanced on his opposite knee. "...I'm working on it. I'm pretty sure I could read before I got my brains conked out." He was trying to reteach himself, even if he didn't have the time to read anymore. It had taken him several minutes' thought to recognize and read the factory sign that named him the moment he woke up from his amnesia... that enough was plenty to tell him he'd been able to read once, even if the ability was jumbled and difficult now. "I can't write... but having only one arm doesn't help."