"Whatever's normal for someone my age. It's just aches and pains." He sighs and gives Bunny a squeeze, hoping it's reassuring, knowing it probably isn't. He's quiet for a moment, not because he's deciding how to lie but because he's trying to figure out what a truthful answer would be to the questions that he avoids thinking about.

"No. I don't reckon so. I don't know if I even really get hangovers anymore." He wakes up feeling exhausted and stiff and with a headache that eases up but never goes away as the day goes by and he clears out his lungs of all the sediment from lying down; for the last year or so, he's been timing smoking a cigarette first thing in the morning so he doesn't nearly puke up his first swig of coffee. "I mean, I don't feel like I ain't hungover neither."

He isn't really in touch with the information his body sends him. That line of communication is fuzzy and distorted by substances, by stress, by the nagging sensation that he doesn't have ownership of it, by the idea that he's fighting against his body instead of partnering with it to stay Bunny's husband in the long haul.

"I don't feel great most of the time. All the time, probably. I don't bring it up because I don't reckon either of us benefit from that." He doesn't expect this conversation to make either of them feel better. He isn't sure why they're having it, except that shutting it down would just turn this into an argument.