Lana rises, removing the basin, and returns it to the bathroom. She fills a cup with water.
On the way back into the living room, she stops at the linen closet, grabs a sheet.
She stops sharply in the living room. The sheet drifts down, covering him. She leans over, slides two Tylenol between chapped, full lips, turning his head slightly to accept the water. He swallows, sputters, on the verge of awakening. He doesn't.
Lana thinks to join him – the impulse is as natural as a heartbeat - but opts (wisely) for the sofa. There's work in the morning.
The couch is empty, a rumpled afghan the lone indicator of previous occupation. The water is running in the bathroom, first in the sink, then in the shower.
He's still on the floor, C-curled.
Lana steps from the shower, wrapping a towel around herself. She tosses wet hair back, wraps it in another towel. She examines her face in the mirror. Still youthful, if only vaguely in spite of her youth, the pain, the pain...visible, etched in her features.
Concealer will hide the dark circles, soften the lines.
She brushes her teeth, applies lipstick and mascara.
Lana gathers her hair, twisting it into a tasteful knot. She exits the bathroom, grabbing a plain blue dress, pumps and tiny pearl earrings. She heads off to work. She'll stop at the army surplus store on the way home. He'll need clothes.
She answers the phone, deftly handling multiple calls and scheduling duties. Fairy princess gone secretary days are always like this, plump with minute-to-minute urgent NOTHING. But... A check's a check. A job's a job.
Lana released the silly teenage notion of a "career" a few years ago. Right after...
4:59 p.m. and she's on the elevator. Happy Hour until six. That'll give her one-half hour to get to the surplus store before it closes.