Made

In the morning, she made breakfast. Nothing special, just toast and cereal, since it was all he had that resembled food. The rest was alcohol, which he wasn't proud of, but he was used to getting food from events for free. Press conferences were good places to get sandwiches and fruit, and interviews were always good for dinner.
She still didn't look great, with bruising around her eye, and clear choke marks on her neck. Her knees were undoubtedly still bloody, but she was wearing an old pair of his sweatpants and a t-shirt.

"Sleep alright?" he asked, coming up behind her.

She nodded, cleaning up crumbs from the counter. "Nightmares, but that's normal," she said. She sat down across the table from him, and smiled. It was a nice gesture, but hindered slightly by her wincing at the pain it caused.

"You should really see a doctor," he said.

"Don't like doctors or hospitals."

He took a bite of the toast tentatively, looking at her. This was probably the last of the food he had in the house, and he would still be there for another three weeks.

"We should go shopping after this," he said.

"Shopping for what?"

"Food."

"I'm not hungry," she said.

He stood up, and walked to the refrigerator, grabbing the eyeliner on the way. 'Must eat' he scribbled beneath the other rules.

"That's a cheap shot," she said, visibly annoyed.

He sat down, sliding the bowl of cereal down to her with a cocked eyebrow. She took a bite, then spit it out.

"Fuck me, that's disgusting," she said. She wiped her mouth, then looked sheepishly at the ground. "Sorry about the cereal."

He chuckled. "Probably stale anyway." She slid it back. "So what do you eat?" he asked.

She shrugged. "Whatever's available. I'm not picky."

"Yeah, you're so open to food that you just eat it all."

She laughed, a hearty one that indicated she hadn't really laughed in a long time. He smiled in response, finishing one piece of toast. He slid the other one to her, and she took a bite. Her face scrunched up in displeasure, and she slid the plate back to him.

"I think I burnt it," she said.

"It's toast," he replied. "Isn't that the point?"

She rolled her eyes.

He ripped the toast in half, and slid the plate to her. "We're not leaving until you eat that."

An hour and a half later, the two of him were in his car on the way to the supermarket.

"It was gross," was all she offered for comment. Laila gazed idly out the window, her head settled in the crook of her elbow on the open window. She hummed along to the radio she persuaded him to put on, with a gruff, "I don't want to listen to old people music." He tried to give her information on the area, like a tour guide, but she wasn't interested. She claimed that the "California sun" made her sleepy, but didn't elaborate.

After about fifteen minutes, she drew her head back in, and turned down the radio.

"Shh," she said, though he hadn't made a noise. She started humming, then singing quietly, "But in my heart, I am lukewarm, nothing ever really touches me." She smiled, leaning her head against the headrest. "Shit, I can't believe I can remember that. It's been ages since I heard that song." She laughed, as though having a conversation with herself. "People are afraid to merge on freeways in Los Angeles," she murmured.

He narrowed his eyes. He'd heard that before, a joke that someone had made to him that he hadn't understood.
"What's that from?" he asked. She turned to look at him, startled.

"Um, Less Than Zero," she said. He looked at her blankly. "It's a book."

"You like it, then?"

She smiled. "It's one of my favorites. Sex, drugs -"

"Rock n' roll?" he interjected, and she laughed.

"I was gonna say prostitution, but sure. It's a good one. 'Disappear here' and all that. It's set in Los Angeles, you know."

He smiled. "Is that why you came?"

She laughed again. "It's more of a reason to avoid the state of California altogether, if you ask me."

"You have a good memory," he commented.

"I've just read it a lot," she said. "It was required for coursework."

"Coursework?"

"Yeah," she said. "I only made it two years, but I did the uni thing for a bit."

"Really?" he asked, taking his eyes off the road for a moment to look at her. The smile had died down slightly, but still lingered on her face. Her short hair was blowing in the wind, and she was focused solely on the road ahead of them.

" 'Course," she said. "I majored in literature. Wanted to be a big time writer."

"What happened?" he asked, regretting the question as soon as it came out of his mouth.

She smiled, a sad one that was full of weariness. "Whores can't write books," she replied.

They sat in silence for the rest of the ride to the supermarket.