She looked up, dully. Perhaps in a previous life, she would have laughed like a sailor at the man's rather grand entrance; as it was, she simply smiled weakly and returned to her ice cream. Artie was a nice guy, if she gave a great deal of thought to it, but the main pressing trouble was her trauma and so he didn't get much of a second glance.
Until, that is, he was at eye level and signing to her. It was American, which she'd managed to get by in to facilitate conversation with Aubrey, but British was her domain and, at this point in time, it was difficult enough to think in English, let alone ASL. She tried to arrange her fingers in the right positions to say something intelligible, but with the spoon in the way it was all but impossible. She could, perhaps, have put the spoon down, but that thought occurred to her only in the same way that thinking about life on other planets did: it was a remote possibility, and someone else's concern even if it was true.
She looked up, blinking once or twice slowly, before pushing her hair out of her eyes. "I'm not going to kill myself," she said, apparently capable of understand his statement (or reading his mind), even if she couldn't respond in the same manner. "The washing machine attacked me."
She eyed him carefully, quietly wondering if he'd brought her alcohol.