She eats quietly, eyebrow slowly, slowly arching. She takes in everything he says with the utmost solemnity, taking time to recall all seven sins, noting that his father was a firefighter as well.

"So what you're sayin' is — it's like bein' married to yourself?"

She stabs a bite of sausage, once more using her fork to mask her burgeoning smirk. Well, at least he's honest. And he knows what to expect in the next thirty or forty years.

She brushes his leg with her own.

"At two-and-eighty, I'd say he's earned the right t'be a bit of a sonnovabitch."