Hey, it's cool, not scary! Maybe it's cool in a way that's a little scary . . . that's what punk's all about! I mean, I think. That makes sense, anyway.

[Probably. Who knows what punk's really all about?

His mind isn't on that right now, anyway, not that it ever really is; he stoops to pick up a fragment of saucer and hold it in his palm. That's the moment it occurs to him the sheer enormity of what's been lost here: it's one fragment of one saucer. How many saucers are in the set? How many cups go with them? How many other dishes does she own? Silverware? The table they go on? The chairs you sit in to drink tea? How many pieces is every one of those things smashed into, and that's just the kitchen?

He holds it out to her, rubbing the back of his neck. Shit, that's depressing to think about. He can't think on this too long . . . ]

This one probably ain't gonna do you much good, huh . . .