"I should get dressed."
"Yeah," Derek said offhandedly. He took Nell's dishes and put them in the sink.
Nell jumped from her chair (when she sat, her feet dangled about a foot off the ground) and she walked back to the bedroom. Her jumpsuit waited stiffly in a chair. Nell was fond of it for its durability and general usefulness as a disguise. She slipped into it with practiced ease and rolled her shoulders to make sure it settled right, but in doing so she hurt her back.
Dammit, she thought. I just cannot catch a break.
Out in the kitchen, Derek was looking over a newspaper that appeared entirely too small when he held it. He saw her but payed her no attention until she approached the table. "Yesterday's fun is on page two. Classified as some kind of gang thing. No pictures, and I don't know who the article author is. Haven't seen any of her work before. You still hurting?"
"Still healing. Speaking of which, how are your cuts?"
"Didn't check," he said, putting down the paper. He pulled up the side of his shirt to examine the wounds, which were pink and puffy and pussy. He reported, "They're doin'... gross."
"You just ignore wounds?"
"Same as I would ignore an ant infestation. They're a mess for a while and then they clear out leaving things cleaner than they were to begin with."
Somehow, Nell found it to be an elegant metaphor.