His little scolding is met with an unconcerned, almost bored shrug; of course she's familiar with the saying, but she has neither eyes nor hands, strictly speaking, so what's it to her? His objection is a clever one though, and she releases his jaw with a theatrical roll of her eyes. "If you're going to be oxymoronic about it."

Bored of sitting, she throws herself down the length of the board, fiery mop of hair cascading down the gunwale while her bare feet stir the ocean. Not that she can feel much of that, but at least she's also still blissfully oblivious of the uneven rocking her exuberant motions keep causing. "Nasty little things, oxymorons," she muses, "contrary, impossible, give me indigestion." Turning half a glance and a patronizing smile on him, she adds, "I suppose you'd quite fancy yourself one."