His few words changed the objective of her trip into the kitchen. Nodding to acknowledge him, she dipped into the drawer that kept the kitchen utensils ready and pulled out a pair of tongs. The work had been taken out of dinner. So often, these days, she felt useless. Evey knew she should probably find gainful employment, but every time she considered it, she asked herself why. Why.
To fill time. To pretend that what her hands were doing would matter. To anyone. But the truth was that it wouldn't matter, not really. Not in a way that really made any tangible difference. The sum of her life came to be a null value. Peter cared for her, but it had been a long time since she made any meaningful difference to him.
Evey set the salad tongs on the table gently and slid into her chair. Perhaps long ago, before broken worlds and dino-filled islands, she would have been troubled by the incongruity of serving salad from a plastic disposable container while at a well-set table. It no longer registered.
But John did. She looked across the table at him, her eyes dark and quiet circles that did not reflect light, and she wondered - not for the first time - just why he'd invited her. It hadn't been necessity; she'd been doing well enough on her own. It hadn't been gratitude; he'd done well enough on his own on that island, and didn't need her. Though sometimes she still thought of the way he'd kissed her - thought on it as one would think back on a long-closed chapter - she did not believe he desired her. It wasn't for her company; they rarely found occasion to exchange words. Perhaps it was their sameness. Even now, as empty as she felt, she could still see in him an echo of herself. Did he see anything like that in her?
She peeled off the top of the plastic container of salad and tucked it under the bowl. "Thank you," she said, her deeply-ingrained British politeness drawing the words out of her like breath. She thought about asking him about his day, but felt like the question was too bland and wretched for dinner.