Dolores Dei -- the innocence of humanism, internationalism, and the welfare state -- turns around to face you. She has an airship carry-on suitcase in her hand. She seems to be in a hurry. She is within the midst of a hallowed out plaza area. An intersection of a street you find familiar, from your own life. There are no people, no cars, only Dolores and her ethereal, holy presence.

Okay, don't say you need to 'talk' right away. Melt the ice first -- this way you're 'already' talking. But you don't even 'want' to talk to her, do you? She would only be cold and mean. Let her go.

"Hello." Her voice came gentle, the greeting simple, with nothing else behind it. There was a faint smile on her expression, and she had stopped in the midst of the street to face you, her left hand still gripping the handle of the carry-on suitcase. Silence ensues, her nuptial gown flows around her, rippling and wrapping around her holy frame.