She blinks at the flip remark, words stolen away from her. She doesn't move when he kisses her, or when he gets up — though, the desire to reach out and catch his wrist, to tell him not to go, is there.

She purses her lips and huffs, eyes shifting from the spot where he used to be to the rumpled and flattened blouse on the other side of the bed. She shrugs it on again, turning around as she buttons up, and fixes him with mild, unamused eyes.

Sitting with her knees drawn up, watching him drink from her bottle, she doesn't say anything for a time. Eventually, she looks away, voice measured and distant.

"Until this year, the day my schoolhouse burned in Green Lake was the most terrifyin' experience I'd ever been through. One mornin' I was sittin' at my desk, an' then they was rippin' apart books an' turnin' over desks for kindlin'. It burned so fast. I ain't never felt such a powerful heat, or tasted such a thick air. I coughed up black for days."

There's a long pause. She lifts her eyes to look at him again.

"Didja ever consider that, maybe, when I'm with you I can't help but think 'bout that day?"