we're never done with killing time

ADAM it's not a cry for help, it's just a cry for connection. Adam was 'cooking'. The closest he got to this was usually tossing a piece of meat on a flame with some kind of pot, waiting until it smelled like food, and putting it on bread. Sometimes, if he felt very fancy, he would cut up an onion and throw that in too, though he had no idea how to tell if it was cooked. Something about how floppy it was, maybe...? As he stirred some beef and onions and herbs (that he had gotten from his old satchel and which were not the kind of plants made for cooking, but he still inhaled them every day, so it was probably fine) he wondered when he'd run out of ammo. Probably at some point. He was already running low, some of his bullets lost for really stupid reasons that he regretted now. There was a knock at the door; he put his spoon down and walked over, opening it. Wearing only the most casually buttoned shirt (one done right at the bottom) and no boots, he looked very much like someone that slept until noon most days. "Oh, uh..." Adam paused for an uncomfortably long moment. "...Melita! Hey! I didn't know if I'd see ya. Come in. You want a drink..?" He opened the door further for her. His kitchen was not beautiful, but it was certainly his. Decorated with many colourful things and with plenty of clutter, it already looked like he'd been living there for years. On the table, where three chairs were haphazardly arranged, there were several bottles of alcohol at various levels of emptiness. i'd trade my life and health, to make people pay attention. I'd sacrifice myself for the sake of entertainment.