" hey. you. you're looking as awful as ever. WHO dresses you? "

If the hatred she felt for Cherry were fireflies, ten million of them would light up the world as she fell asleep. Siobhan would bottle them, like a potion, and shake them up before throwing them at Cherry's eyes and hoping she loses them, and as such can never comment on Siobhan's lack of fashion ever again.

She rubs her face with her glove. Sounds tired. "It's. The glea— it's standard. For us. It's a uniform." Then, because she's certain the feeling is at least somewhat mutual: "Can you, like." A beat. "Die." Another. "Just wondering."