[And she eases back as well, disentangles herself from him and goes over to her bag. She picks it up, opens it, pulls a kleenex out - blots some of the moisture off her shoulder. But for once she does so without judgment or condemnation or displeasure; her gestures are just matter-of-fact. Doing what has to be done without recrimination.
Then she pulls out a few aspirin, tips them into her palm and holds them out to him. As she does, she asks - ]
[She nods, and disappears at once into the kitchen. About a minute elapses, and then there's a beeping, and then she emerges once again: in her hand is a mug, filled with warm milk, scented with a bit of vanilla and cinnamon, sweetened with just a little sugar. She hands it to him gingerly.]
Careful. It's a bit hot. I guess maybe that mug wasn't microwave-safe.
[His hands are cold, anyway, so he hardly notices the heat. He's already swallowed his aspirin. Now he takes a tentative sip. The way his hands shake, it's a little difficult to hold the mug, but he manages.]
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Then she pulls out a few aspirin, tips them into her palm and holds them out to him. As she does, she asks - ]
Do you have any milk?
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Um... I think so.
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Careful. It's a bit hot. I guess maybe that mug wasn't microwave-safe.
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...Thanks.
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It's what my mom used to do for me.
[And then she realizes what she said, and immediately scowls at him:]
Not that I have cried or will ever cry.