[ That brief moment from earlier in their conversation, when Irving had caught his eyes lingering on Jack's long, ringed fingers, occurs to him again now unbidden, a flash of that earlier thought: I believe that perhaps something could be deeply wrong with me.

He's normally in much better control of himself than this. Irving can't explain, not even to himself, some of the things he's been saying or doing or thinking so casually and carelessly during this conversation-- like every locked door in his mind has been suddenly springing open to spill out everything he's always worked so hard to bury out of sight. ]

I...

[ Irving isn't sure what to say, paralyzed with some feeling that is not quite fear, is in fact distressingly closer to a curious type of boldness. Unlike Jack, when their new drinks are brought over, Irving immediately drinks deeply and desperately from his.

Once he's done, clearing his throat, he tries again. ]

Forgive me, then, if I have somehow misread your intentions. Perhaps it is... something about your nature that draws it out of me.