In a funny way she's fond of his fish, even though she doesn't give them much conscious attention. They're a part of the comfortable background radiation of his apartment, cool light and the murmur of water, and they give her an excuse to meddle. Here's a key, feed the fish while I'm out of town. It's good for him to have the routine, to take care of something.

All that matters here is whether he's taking care of himself, and-- and.

She eats until she's full, and manages at least half the chicken, which feels like plenty. For a fleeting moment, she thinks-- maybe all this is worth it; even if she stayed here to live out her last lingering days with him, it's not such a bad life.

(It's not such a bad life with him here, is the truth, in any year.)

Finishing her own wine, she stands to take her own plate inside-- she can't help it, serially self-reliant, terrible at being a guest in someone else's home. But she'll let him take the lead in finding containers for leftovers.