Infinite grace poured into this planet and they come up with a hundred thousand shapes of pasta. I like the ones in the can, with the little perfectly round meatballs, you know?

[Gabriel shrugs, and he looks back, though he's not making any effort to win a staring contest. He'll blink. He's old-- to say older than he looks is laughably inadequate. They might as well be old friends, if Gabriel had ever been the sort to actually consider anyone a friend.]

Yeah, well. You don't have to worry about that, anymore; I learned to drive.