Harold smiled up at her. How long had they been together that she could anticipate his needs so succinctly? The cynic in him said 'too long' but he knew how lucky he was to have her. Prior to Gillian, his longest relationship with a member of the opposite sex (other than his mother) had been the eleven and a half weeks of Shrodinger-esque love with Phillippa Shortbridge when he was an undergraduate at Oxford. It was one of those relationships where he never pressed the idea of taking it to the physical level in case she said no, but as long as he didn't ask, yes and no were equal possibilities. Asking the question would collapse the equation.
And a dead girlfriend was better than none.
“Thanks.” He took the straw and poked it into the blood bag. He was certainly less squeamish these days. Using a blood bag like a drink carton would have given him a panic attack in the Phillippa days.
She gave him an upward nod and went to put Lucy down for a nap. He turned his attention to the charred corpse, pushing the end of the straw through his lips. It was hard to believe they'd been shopping at Tesco only a couple of hours before. He squeezed the bag, forcing a thin stream of blood into the zombie's mouth and watch the adam's apple bob as he swallowed.
Dill's voice was a cracked and weak as his face. “Harold?”