[ from years — a lifetime — of experience, it is incredibly obvious when someone is mad at him. the issue gets bumped down when she starts talking about eating birds, and the novel gets bleaker by the second. ]

Stop. [ he holds up a hand as if she's paying any attention to what he's doing, exchanging a glance with the toilet and wondering if he should take a turn throwing up his guts after what she just said. ] It was raw? Like, you hunted a bird just to eat it? Did it taste good?

[ this is bullshit, and he won't do this anymore without a drink. he pushes to his feet and leaves her in the bathroom, busying himself with pouring them two glasses of whatever the staff has restocked them with — bourbon today, because parisa's favorite red just doesn't seem strong enough right now.

he returns not just with the drink, but also holding one of his silky pajama tops, dark blue fabric rippling like water, because her present outfit is wrinkly and wet and has little flecks of blood scattered across it. ]

Do you want help changing? [ he hangs the shirt on a golden hook and hands her the drink. ] People have blackouts all the time. Point to them, please. I'm not getting my memories back, either. I tried to, with Hawk. I made him... I made him recreate exactly what we did, hoping that it would jog my memory, and all that happened was I figured out he's fucked up, too. In a different, irrelevant to this conversation way.

It's like you and your — bird. So far it hasn't been that bad. I haven't done anything I can't come back from. But eventually, I could hurt someone. Eventually, you could eat someone. What if you do eat me? What if you wake up and I'm trying to gut you? Is anyone going to point out that none of us should be alive?

[ then — ] You can't permanently be in my mind. That's humiliating. What about when I'm fantasizing about Martha Stewart?