Tilda is the great pretender. An actress. She wants a room of people to eat up her drama, to find comfort in the fraud. To unravel in front of a captive audience would make Zo squirm even if its an illusion.
Zoe doesn't buy it. Never even pulled out her wallet. She's seen Tilda at her worst. She can still see the hint of a scar that smiles against her neck. She knows that Tilda is just second-hand goods just like her.
There's minimal reaction to the smoking except for maybe a wrinkle in her nose. The lotion only gets an outstretched palm. She's feeling itchy too.
"When I've had the milk for free, why buy the cow?" she turns, not even caring there's no set place, nowhere specific to get to. It's what they used to do on those deep autumn nights, paying their respects to graveyards and throwing porcelain at the fading myths and wandering souls.