She wasn't expecting a laugh. A bit of self-deprecating humor might have been the distant goal, but she still feels too wretched to get much beyond the 'self-deprecating' part. The sound helps lighten the mood, though, and she smiles in return. It's small and shy and a little embarrassed, but it's there, and it's genuine.
"I probably haven't been thinking about it enough." There's a wry edge to that, too, because it goes without saying. One of the downsides to making your own clothes is that they fit perfectly until they don't, and then they look twice as wrong as something that was never made to fit perfectly to begin with. She hasn't lost enough weight for it to be alarming, but it's still evident in the way she fails to fill out her dress.
"But it's better with you here," she adds, going for brisk and businesslike as she rises to her feet. It's too sudden a move, and she has to pause and wait for a moment of light-headedness to pass before making her way into the kitchen. "Feeding you means I have to have something, otherwise it'd be rude." Well, maybe not rude so much as weird. Semantics. Doesn't matter.
She could add that it's just harder, cooking for one. All that effort for such small portions. Making more and freezing the extra is an option, of course, but it's one she's already taken advantage of to the point where her little freezer won't hold much more. And thawing small portions might be the only prospect more dismal than making them from scratch. Though she will admit, at least to herself, that the minimal amount of effort involved has proved fortunate on her worse days.
It's not a great haul as far as groceries are concerned -- none of it even needs to go in the fridge. It's not a task that really requires two people. But she's grateful for the offer. More than that, she's just grateful he's still here, and showing no signs of leaving.
Some small part of her is already dreading the part where he leaves.
But that's a ways off, yet, and she refuses to fixate on it. Instead, she stays him for just a moment with a hand on his arm, lingering long enough to say, "Thank you," and to meet his gaze squarely so he'll know that she means it. Her thumb skates a light arc over his skin, more muscle memory than anything conscious or deliberate. Then her lips twist in wry acknowledgment -- yes, she's being soppy, she knows -- and she releases him, moving to put the kettle on. Tea's easy to start, and then she can figure out what to tackle for food.
"D'you want some tea? Or coffee?" She still hasn't developed a taste for the stuff, herself, but she has some instant on hand for guests. "Or whatever's in the fridge," she adds with an absent flap of her hand. There are at least a few bottles of beer that she's been studiously avoiding, as if 'drinking alone' would be crossing a boundary into territory too pathetic even for her current state. But they're not out of date; otherwise, they would have fallen victim to one of her cleaning sprees.
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"I probably haven't been thinking about it enough." There's a wry edge to that, too, because it goes without saying. One of the downsides to making your own clothes is that they fit perfectly until they don't, and then they look twice as wrong as something that was never made to fit perfectly to begin with. She hasn't lost enough weight for it to be alarming, but it's still evident in the way she fails to fill out her dress.
"But it's better with you here," she adds, going for brisk and businesslike as she rises to her feet. It's too sudden a move, and she has to pause and wait for a moment of light-headedness to pass before making her way into the kitchen. "Feeding you means I have to have something, otherwise it'd be rude." Well, maybe not rude so much as weird. Semantics. Doesn't matter.
She could add that it's just harder, cooking for one. All that effort for such small portions. Making more and freezing the extra is an option, of course, but it's one she's already taken advantage of to the point where her little freezer won't hold much more. And thawing small portions might be the only prospect more dismal than making them from scratch. Though she will admit, at least to herself, that the minimal amount of effort involved has proved fortunate on her worse days.
It's not a great haul as far as groceries are concerned -- none of it even needs to go in the fridge. It's not a task that really requires two people. But she's grateful for the offer. More than that, she's just grateful he's still here, and showing no signs of leaving.
Some small part of her is already dreading the part where he leaves.
But that's a ways off, yet, and she refuses to fixate on it. Instead, she stays him for just a moment with a hand on his arm, lingering long enough to say, "Thank you," and to meet his gaze squarely so he'll know that she means it. Her thumb skates a light arc over his skin, more muscle memory than anything conscious or deliberate. Then her lips twist in wry acknowledgment -- yes, she's being soppy, she knows -- and she releases him, moving to put the kettle on. Tea's easy to start, and then she can figure out what to tackle for food.
"D'you want some tea? Or coffee?" She still hasn't developed a taste for the stuff, herself, but she has some instant on hand for guests. "Or whatever's in the fridge," she adds with an absent flap of her hand. There are at least a few bottles of beer that she's been studiously avoiding, as if 'drinking alone' would be crossing a boundary into territory too pathetic even for her current state. But they're not out of date; otherwise, they would have fallen victim to one of her cleaning sprees.