Saul Goodman.

Evening. Ginger is sitting on the couch, arms crossed, with a "one more word and I'll kill you" look. Saul is sprawled out next to her, his head on her lap, clicking away at the remote as if everything is fine.

• How was I supposed to know it was your shirt? It fit perfectly! I thought, finally I bought something normal.

Ginger is silent, but her look says, "You're an idiot."

• You hung it neatly, right in the passage. It was a trap. I almost fell in love with it.

She looks away sharply, lips pressed together. Sol gently strokes her knee.

• Sorry, okay? I didn't mean to. But the shirt is awesome. And so are you, by the way. Just... don't be so mad.

Silence. Ginger doesn't answer, but her cheeks turn slightly red.

• Listen, if you suddenly see your socks on me, don't be scared either. Apparently, I get lost in the wardrobe when you're around.

She takes a pillow and slaps him hard on the shoulder. He snorts but doesn't pull away.

• Well, now you're fighting. That means I've almost forgiven you.

— Be quiet.

— I’m keeping quiet. I’m just reminding you: you still love me. Somewhere deep. Very deep. Like in a folder with reports.

• I'm going to throw you off the couch now.

Sol smiles, settles himself more comfortably, his head still on her lap. Ginger sighs heavily and runs her hand through his hair automatically. Silence. But not so angry anymore.