The girl sliding into the booth beside him sees the dark-eyed deviant scowl readily now, shifting slightly to the side to accommodate her presence, though her sudden closeness seems to puzzle him, if only slightly, before her attention upon the laminated paper he had seen fit to launch at her head mere moments ago seems to ensnare him all the same, dark eyes resting upon her finger as she points at the dark markings. He understands, perhaps, that these are letters of some form, that each marking means something and yet his inability to perceive the markings assures only irritated frustration. His mind, while so very cunning within certain manners is often given entirely to exhaustion, the boy easily overwhelmed in certain situations. Writing and reading, it would seem, is one such situation, fractured mind often near incapable of producing the concentration required for such a thing, his frustration within his own inability often taken out on those around him and yet, for a moment at least he moves to offer Birdie some form of...patience, allowing his gaze to rest upon the word she points at it, the soft, smooth words that follow seeing those fathomless dark pools flick from the woman to the menu and back again, attempting to find a pattern, an understanding, a perception of sorts between the words she offers and the markings and yet....so many of the words are foreign to him, so much of what she says met with an utterly blank stare before he moves to suddenly lit his t-shirt upward, head twisting to examine his sides.

For a moment he does little more than stare, seemingly perplexed in these moments before those long fingers move to trace the tanned skin of his side, brushing over his ribs and lean form with evident curiosity, seemingly searching for something that continues to elude him before those fathomless dark eyes peer upward and toward the woman once more. He has come perhaps, to trust her, at least to the extent he is willing to acknowledge her knowledge, that he is willing to accept information from her, holding some belief she will not lie to him and as such seems to eye her critically now. He is a mistrustful creature by nature so long lived so harshly assuring that he is wary perhaps, of those around him, cautious about what he chooses to believe and within this moment he is very near assured the woman lies to him, eyes narrowed now in suspicion.

"I do not think...my...sides are....veggie-tables....or potatoes or French Fires."

That he has pronounced nearly every word wrong assures a number of curious glances from other patrons, the boy fortunately oblivious as he continues to eye the curly-haired woman with clear discord before the conversation shifts slightly to his collar once more. It is, if anything, perhaps the only part of himself h is sensitive about, any mention of the adornment often sending him into fits of rage that display the true volatility of his nature and indeed for a moment his fingers press more firmly against the table as he lets his shirt fall, nails biting at the wood in dissention as she offers some form of assistance, little more then a nod offered by way of response, clearly unwilling to speak much further on this matter as he fiddles with the napkin dispenser, fingers fumbling over it before his attention shifts just as rapidly to the sugar. The sweet taste upon his tongue seems only to further engage the miscreant, oblivious to Birdie's efforts to fold the napkins as he near inhales the packets, paper and all. While he is given to a diet consisting near entirely of raw meat, sugar, it would seem, is his single indulgence, the white crystals in any form a near drug of sorts, one Risqué continually denies him, perhaps resulting in this surge of desire- one halted only by the approach of the waitress. Her approach sees a growl of sorts rise within his throat, the boy hurriedly clutching his sugar packets closer for fear the woman may attempt to steal them from him, swallowing his current packet before Birdie moves to point at the paper once more.

He does not understand it, cannot perceive what she is attempting to convey as she whispers towards him, the boy simply leaning forward to tap commandingly at the menu, mimicking Birdie herself before moving to repeat her speech, dark eyes flicked against the waitress now, the woman shifting in clear discomfort beneath the weight of his dark gaze.

"You would like the sirloin, cooked rare and fires and mush potatoes as your sides."

He repetition is near flawless, words strung together with a seeming ease, though he stumbles upon 'fries' and 'mash' the woman staring blankly for a moment before proceeding to scribble upon her paper before moving off, Birdie shifting back to her own seat mere moments before the bowl of onion rings arrive. His hesitation in this is short lived, the boy moving to pluck one readily from the bowl, sniffing at it momentarily before bringing it to his lips, tongue rolling this bite of food about before he seems to deem it passable, reaching for another and another, the sugar packets near forgotten though he still maintains his hold over them, a slight smile seeming to trace his lips in a momentary calm- content to simply do as he has been asked- at least for now.

"This I....like."

It is a simple statement, this tiny fragment of pleasure displayed from within the chaos of his mind, though it is unfortunately short lived. The waitress returns mere moments later with a set of steak knives, clearly meant for the table and the meals they have ordered, those dark eyes slicing sideways the moment the light is given to reflect from the knifes edge, eyes widening suddenly, mind rapidly beginning to perceive her approach as some form of attack, animal instinct so hurriedly brought to life as his eyes narrow upon her, one hand reaching to snatch Birdie's water glass from in front of her, his intention surely painfully clear as he prepares to launch it at his perceived attacker, the waitress halting mid stride, her own features shifting into a puzzled look. What is he doing? There is clear apprehension in her voice, this momentary display of fear only further reeking of weakness, a weakness he seizes readily, eyes flicking from the knives to the woman and back again as she moves to take another step and he proceeds to hurl the glass at her with surprising force.

"You...get away!"

madness, as you know, is like gravity: all it takes is a little push