"I thought you were a girl," Seth says, with a lofty air of intellectual prowess based on absolutely nothing he's doing at all. It's the kind of clever observation a drunk who knows not what they are makes, but for Seth this is all novel and not self-conscious. He's has a glass of wine once before in his entire life, but it makes a kind of sense to indulge in all of humanity's sins now that he's at least adjacent to them. That, and he wants to be somewhere outside of himself, a state of affairs that is stubbornly not forthcoming.
"Please, come in. Make yourself comfortable. Mind the bloodstains." Seth cocks his head at the door with unabashed interest at whomever or whatever might come through it, his eyes bright with his inquisitiveness as much as with gin. There is plenty of blood to be mentioned. He kept most of it off of his new black slacks, but he isn't sure if it will ever really come out of the linoleum. He remembers from years of trying to exorcise it from the floor no one else could see, dumping bleaching and lifting products on it in desperation until he finally decided to just tear it up in ragged chunks and replace it with cheap but clean substitutes. Iron stains are difficult.
Seth watches the door for whomever or whatever comes through it, a less than imposing figure brooding in his wheelchair like Hephaestus. Besides the towel knotted around his hand there's a blanket draped over his lap, one of Jonah's concessions to caring, and Seth doesn't wish (at all) that he had left things alone (not even once) when the point was to bring them back together (because to be alone was to be nothing, and Seth was afraid).