Lan hauls his booze up the stairs, stopping to look at Saya's door, then down at the bottom. No lights, she must be out. Then again, there aren't many people that are in at 3pm on a Thursday.

Opening his door, he's greeted with the void of a dark, empty apartment yet again, turning to stock the fridge with the cases – an easy feat, there's barely any food there as it is. Lan hooks his fingers into the corner of the sealed flaps and tears the cardboard, pulling out his first of the day.

“It's good to have a routine, son. A routine makes..” he pauses, realizing he's parroting his father's words, which just bristles the hairs on the back of his neck.

Everyone wants to save you, and no one knows how.

Lan lets the fridge door close as he turns back to the living room. Pulling the tab on the can, it cracks open and he starts his.. routine. Walking to the couch and turning on the TV, he thinks about what his shrink said. When was the last time he showered? Jesus. And you showed up probably disgusting as fuck to that poor girl.

The inner mind is a very difficult debate opponent to win against. He doesn't bother sitting down, starting for the bathroom door intending to scrub himself head to toe.

But he doesn't forget to take the can with him.

–-

The same damn place, every time. If he disliked it, he never showed it to Saya. Gregg was a creature of habit. Very much so. And so here she sits in the parking lot of Subway, tapping her fingers along the steering wheel.

Which one this time, the BMT? A salad, or a wrap? They offer soup, too, how many times has it been this year? You could order for him, like a foreign restaurant, you know what he's going to order anyway. It never changes. It never fucking changes it never changes it never changes it never--

Saya leans back and looks at the ceiling of her car, taking a deep breath in and holding it. Anxiety experts say to let it go slowly through the mouth. Seven in, four out. It's only when she is startled by the knock on her window that she jumps and turns to her boyfriend smiling at her, letting out that trapped breath.

She twists the keys, killing the engine and pushing the door open as he steps back to give her space to exit. The same greeting, a kiss on the cheek as he takes her hand towards the restaurant.

“How was your day?” he asks, Saya gives a non-committal shrug and an “Mm.” - okay. Same as always. “Today was Film Theory,” Gregg continues, “It just seems like all we do is watch movies and discuss what we think, which isn't really teaching us anything..”

He pulls open the door and waits for her to go first, he had manners, after all. After Saya walks in, Gregg steps past her towards the line to order, and she scans him from behind. He wasn't unattractive, far from it, he was short, which always came up in conversation, his complex about being under six feet wasn't far from any topic, though he was taller than her.

Good Jewish genes, she thinks. What the hell does that mean? Curly black hair? Circumcision? He wasn't practicing, as far as she knows as she stands beside him, scanning the list of sandwiches.

Kosher. Gregg wasn't too interested in following that part of being Jewish, not that she could fault him for it, pigs are rather delicious, and nothing here was kosher. His mother would kill him if she knew how often..

He steps up and starts his order, even though the server smiles and entertains the man he's seen at least once a week. Saya doesn't open her mouth, but her tongue moves as she recites Gregg's order to a T:

“Footlong meatball, on wheat, no cheese, except for the parmesan, please.” She watches as four meatballs are scooped onto bare bread on one half, another four on the other half. Saya smiles to herself, thinking it must be a company policy – four meatballs, no more.

Gregg turns to her: “What do you want, babe?”

Saya's mouth opens but hitches for a moment. They're all the same, just say anything. Shaking her head clear, she smiles at the server. “Ham and cheese, on wheat.”