He's clearly not leaving, and his avuncular manner brings an answering childishness out in her. Without conscious thought, she slides into a persona, sweet, docile, a little flighty. A mix and match of herself and others.

She stands up and raises her arms. Her black trousers are scuffed at the knees, her black converse likewise at the toes. She'd previously exchanged her bloody top for a plain white shirt at the store, it was now folded to the elbows. "Anything better than this," she says, giving him a pirouette. "I feel like a waitress." And she punctuates that with a mocking bow.