He'd thought about a few things, that hour in front of the TV. Things that twisted the knife a bit deeper. And she'd come and sat down, and he tried to tell her something honest, and he got that. So...so, nothing. Who cares? He scrubs himself in the shower, hot enough to burn, and then shaves because he's still not a sodding hippy. Old Spice, and the jeans and rugby shirt he'd grabbed. He could still collapse from exhaustion, but at least there's anger enough to fuel him a while longer.

He emerges in a cloud of steam, and is pulled up a bit short to see her there, holding tea.

'That mine?'