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"Personal space is a social construct." She said, giving him an incredulous look when he stumbled backwards as though she were afflicted with an execrable case of leprosy. Whatever, someone out there thought she was sexy enough to be titillated af when she invaded the, in her eyes, variable and subjective distance that measured "personal space." 

Something in her stirred when he called her Moshy, like a smothered reminiscence––a hairsplit memory––gasping for oxygen in her chest. Silver fretwork etched underfoot in the wet sand and microscopic crabs flocked to it, wrecking it with their claws the moment her eyes beheld it. Slack-jawed, Lusca stared, then scattered the imaginary creatures with a furious shooing gesture of her paw. But the design had been scuttled into nothing and with it her faint memory. 

At his asking, wordlessly she swept to his side and loped ahead, pitching her head back over her shoulders with near grotesque flexibility. "Yo, I forgot your name."