[ At the crash and clatter— at the raising of her voice— John turns away from his place in the hot cider line. He has the slightly beleaguered look of a man who expects fistfights to break out when his back is turned, and finds them only a little inconvenient; he steps up beside the two of them with his hands splayed in the universal gesture of easy, easy. ]

Are we making friends already? [ Ha ha. ] Sorry about that. She has some strong opinions on arcane theory, you know, very academic stuff. You want a cider?