Much was aware a woman had sat down next to him and he shuffled in his seat a fraction, an unconscious movement to make sure he’d left her enough space. When she spoke, her voice took a long time to filter through, like the air around his head (or inside it) was thick as soup, and only then did he turn his head to look at her. He frowned to try and summon the memory of what she’d said, and tugged at the robe to pull it more tightly shut over his chest, though that just brought back the memory of Sloth opening it and looking down at him.
“M’sorry,” he said to the young woman, once he’d worked out she’d said something about needing a friend. He didn’t know what to say to that, and only just now was he realising she was an immortal as well, and he didn’t know what to do about that, either.
Mummble. Look away. Stare at the floor. Something like that.