There's something grating about how smooth her voice is. The bottle in her hands. The proximity of this-- whoever the hell this is -- to her side. Charlie raises his glass with a jerky motion of his arm, smiles with too many teeth. His balance isn't terribly sturdy on the uneven ground.

"Because that worked out so well the last time." It's cruel, and there's a pleasant gouging quality to it that's equal parts offensive and self-flagellation.