His name takes her by surprise, and she’s so far out of practice with the whole interacting with others thing that it shows plainly on her face. For a moment, a longer moment than was probably polite, she just stares at him. She might not have believed him if he had phrased it another way and she wonders if he learned to use one manner of introduction over another.
‘My name is Garbage’ instead of ‘I am Garbage.’
Whatever other small talk she might have attempted has flown right out of her mind, and while she’s still deciding whether it’s too rude to ask about why he is named that, she manages to not be a complete idiot and introduce herself. “I’m Agetta.”
She’s not quite sure yet whether it was a pleasure to meet him or not, but she can’t deny that her interest has been piqued.
And, well, in the end and after not very much consideration she decides to ask the question on her mind. After all, she’s a century old and she’s been murdered before and there just comes a time when you ask the questions you want to because you’ve lived (and died) through too much to dance around topics like the weather. “Did you parents name you that?” She can’t quite bring herself to call him Garbage, even if that’s his name, however.
She hasn’t yet known him long enough to know whether it fits him.
@[garbage]