"You're a fucking mess," Mary told him scornfully, making a face. Mary, for all she felt terrible, at least still looked good. Brushed hair, a splash of makeup to disguise the puffy eyes, clean blue jeans and a slate grey sweater: this year she'd decided to try and make it appear like she wasn't a completely disaster in public.
That was easier to say on Tuesday than Friday. By Friday she was sure she wouldn't be able to keep that up, but she also had no plans to leave her house the whole weekend or see anyone. She would keep her misery close.
From the fridge, Mary grabbed two beers and came back over. Instead of sitting on the couch with him, she swept aside the cans and sat down on the coffee table so that she could watch him, so that he had to see her watching him.