Sitting and talking is among the last things that Elvis actually wants to do, but for the moment, still quietly reeling, he doesn't have it in him to protest. Besides, while he might be smarter than to go chasing after memories, there's still something about her so distinctly reminiscent of his girlfriend that he can't turn away, either. Sliding into a seat, mug of coffee still in his hands, he tries for a smile, though it's small, halfhearted. There's only so much pretending he's remotely capable of.

"That's me," he says, nodding slightly. It's a memorable name; he's more pleased that he remembered hers. "How, uh, how've you been settling in?"