He listens. It gives him time to steady out a little, to match the thin attempt at casual. Putting together a puzzle, staying upright, nothing to see here. No one's been crying blood.

"It comes back over time." He says it half like a question, half like reassurance. Maybe he needs it. Big things and miserable things are both more concrete than what he has: bleach and saline, footsteps on steel grating, barbecue smoke, Cappuccino Tuesdays. Someone's hair, someone's fingers on a cigarette. The poem. The black hole in his chest that goes with it.

"Well," he amends, trying to rally, "let's hope so. The pickings are slim over here."

He waves a hand towards his head but doesn't quite manage the smile.