For Alex's part, she doesn't even think about herself being naked in proximity to him. The hot water is all she thinks about, taking a long time to let it strip away the grit and grime, the layers of exhaustion. She knows she's dead, and things like food shouldn't matter, but how else is one supposed to go on living if one doesn't act alive?

When she emerges, her hair is twisted up in a towel on top of her head, and the baggy sweatshirt hangs off one shoulder. Seems the eighties haven't entirely left her behind.

"All yours."

The bag is emptied in search of a fork for the salad, and another glass of wine is poured. She balances the plastic box on her knees as she eats, trying to keep an eye on him without making it painfully obvious that she is.