There's no rush to do anything, really. But if he has a list, then that's not a bad thing to be on it. And once the date becomes known, she'll have a quiet giggle about it. She's fairly sure that the son of the chaste god was a good guy who wouldn't have minded a night of drinking, merriment, and joyous sex without censure or judgement. It's his dad who would have taken issue. And the priests.

She smiles as he takes what she offers. She loves to feed him, to take care of him in as many small ways as he'll allow. Tiny intimacies anchor her in this new life where they're together again, and she's missed the flecks of colour in his irises, the way light hits his lashes, the lift and curl of his lips in expression and motion.

"Good! Because I think she'd be less stressed. Mortals are always stressed. This modern world is doing them no favours."

(She has no idea. Maybe 80 years? Maybe 100? She'll be eternally youthful - eventually she'll have to use makeup to look older, until they drop out of society when she 'retires' from dancing.)

A mouthful of rice is chewed with slow enjoyment as he continues, and she nods thoughtfully.

"I have one," she tells him, "We can share it. I think. I'm actually not too clear on that... wait. Do you have ID?"

Because he's three and a half thousand years old, and there is technology, now.