Mandy steps into the elevator after him, glancing briefly at her own reflection before closing her eyes against it, feeling suddenly exhausted, the boost from the beer finally wearing off. Her forehead creases slightly, not from the insult to her brothers - she’s called them worse, and been less apologetic - but the reference to how they see her. In her head she hears the words “botched abortion” all over again, and she opens her eyes, frowning at the floor. “You really think so…?” she asks quietly, and squeezes his hand a little tighter as they go into the room.
She glances at the TV stand, then shakes her head and sits down gingerly on the comforter, undoing the buttons on her coat. “Nah… I don’t really want any more.” The variety of terrible television flashes over her eyes without much attention paid to it, and she lets herself flop backward on the bed, gazing up at the ceiling. The heater rattles against the far wall, cranking out stuffy, hot air. It’s a welcome change from the usual chill at her house, and the sound is alien but comforting.
She closes her eyes again with a smile, half-hearing Lip’s new quotes. “Everybody pays,” she yawns, slowly. “Innocence, health, optimism… always something.”
He breathes a sigh before sitting up and tugging his scarf off, throwing it to the floor and having his jacket follow after. The hotel’s warm considering the outside weather, distant skyscrapers visible out the open window. He shuffles his shoes off and stands, explaining, “I need to pee,” without embarrassment. Walking into the tiny bathroom he lift the toilet’s seat and unzips his pants, washing his hands once he’s done.
He comes back, laying down at Mandy’s side. He hesitates, hand poised to wrap across her waist—the liquid courage dispelling and leaving him tired—before he settles to across her. “You better not steal my wallet while I’m asleep,” he jokes quietly into her shoulder. He doesn’t peg Mandy as that type of girl, but he’s been with a few if not heard stories about them. It’s not like he has much to steal unless she wants his work permit and expired library card anyway. The article about the germs on a hotel comforter makes him frown, but he’s comfortable and not willing to mention how gross the evidence was. But he drags a lumpy pillow down from the head of the bed and gives enough room on it to share. He rubs a thumb along the stripe of skin where her shirt’s ridden up, sighs in her fading perfume and smell of shampoo as he curls closer. “It’s nice,” he mutters, eyes closed. The sound of cars persist outside in a dull background soundtrack, as his mouth quirks up in a half-smile, telling her “this is intimacy without pressure or burden. Simple.”