“It might be a little cold.”
It felt completely inadequate as something to say but she thought if anyone would be able to pick up on the weight behind the words, it would be him. They had spent so much time in silence and later with only half-sentences when she worked up the courage. It might be a little cold. I didn’t leave you for very long, I promise.
She picked up two boxes and brought them over to him, sitting cross-legged on the floor in front of the couch. It was obvious that she had spent most of the time awake, even she looked vaguely exhausted at the moment. “I don’t know what kind they are. I might have stolen someone else’s food.”
“S'fine. Thank you.” He did pick up on the weight, but like most of their conversations, it went unspoken. His gratitude was again in his tone and expression as he sat up, combing back the disheveled muss on his head.
“I don’t particularly care at the moment. So long as it’s food–" It was hard to think past his hunger, so he flicked open a box–regular cheese pizza–and tore two slices, folded them and started to eat. He did not speak again until he devoured half the cheese pie and half the veggie one beneath it. It was like he was trying cover up a taste, based on how quickly he was inhaling each slice, and he was. The voices taunted images of blood and he kept seeing eyes, even in the round bits of black olives. The saltiness brought about another taste of something warm and slippery. "M'gon’ get water,” he mumbled as he stood, kicking the jar of peanut butter as he stumbled forward.
