Greta waits patiently, unperturbed by Iman's floundering. This must not happen often, impromptu self-defense lessons in an alleyway after several drinks, but she has complete faith that Iman will come up with something.

"But you could," she offers by way of encouragement. Iman could do anything, she suspects. Anything she wanted. What must that be like?

It's a faint surprise when her back bumps up against the wall, but not a troubling one. The wall makes it easier to stand without swaying, and a villainous sort would try to corner her, wouldn't they? Perfectly sensible. It's just that it doesn't leave her with anywhere to go when Iman finishes her demonstration.

She's so close.

Greta starts to lift her arms automatically, but she doesn't know what to do with them next. Is she actually meant to fight back? She doesn't want to. Her hands hover at Iman's sides, because there is no way to touch her that wouldn't be presumptuous.

Is Iman leaning closer, or is she just imagining it? She searches the other woman's eyes, uncertain and inquiring, and then forgets what she was supposed to be looking for. Her cheeks are flushing - probably from the alcohol. "Yes," she hears herself say, as if from a distance. In response to the lesson. Probably.