"You're a real riot, you know that? And whatever, I'm not hungry." Faith has experimented carefully with how to get a Slayer so drunk it makes a dent in anything. Eating's not the way to do it. "I'm a big girl, I can handle it."

Corpse-like. Dead. Never gonna get to say goodbye, to close up the open wounds he left inside. Her hand closes tight enough around the bottle there's an audible crack, and she hisses as it shatters, glass in her hand now, red coating the broken pieces. "Really not helping me out here, Wes. I know what I saw, the blow by blow's just icing."