Michael shakes his head once, both trying to clear it and deflecting Lee's apology. He runs a hand carefully through her hair (he's always careful about that) and looks at her closely (he's careful about that too—he knows she doesn't like to be stared at, but right now he can't help it). Maybe it's good that he'll have a night to himself, he thinks as he examines the creases of her eyelids. Maybe he can contemplate the meaning of whatever-this-is: a lovely brown bag and its mysterious contents, a trip here and back out in the cold, the rosy smell of L'Air du Temps.
He wants to thank her but it doesn't seem right, like it's not enough. He frowns, frustrated.
“There's something—” Michael says, then feels like an idiot because he didn't want to bring this up. “—shit, never mind. No, I mean there is something, it's just I don't know what it is. I know that's a stupid explanation, okay, I just, I can't...” Dammit. He starts over. “You—This was good. The lunch and the coming here, it was good.”