[It's not that her divorce made her a Grinch. Lenore has always found the plethora of holidays that have some kind of ritual where you have to spend money on things you wouldn't otherwise buy obnoxious, and yet she understands the necessity of celebrating them, especially when you're stuck in the vast vacuum of space with just a few feet of steel between you and a cold, solitary death.

There was a time when she used to celebrate Valentine's day, and happily, too.

Still nursing hurt feelings over her disastrous attempt to call home — "I'm sorry, Len, she's just at that stage where she's distrustful of strangers, why don't you try calling again in a few days?" — and a stressful day in surgery attempting to reattach Ensign Yamagata's severed arm, she stomps down to the mess, determined to scrounge up some food and perhaps, hopefully, even some synthehol. Even if it's disgusting as usual, it's better than nothing, and she wants to get drunk tonight. Her carefully-hoarded bottle of Saurian brandy is for sipping, not for drinking until she forgets how it felt to watch her own daughter hide her face from the woman she doesn't recognize anymore.

At this hour, the mess is usually all but deserted. Seeing Spock sitting all alone is a surprise, as he's usually as precise as clockwork when it comes to his routine, and that includes when he eats dinner.

Needling Spock might just be the distraction she needs from her own maudlin thoughts.] You look like a kid caught with their hand in the cookie jar, Spock, [she says as she drops her tray on the table and takes a seat across from him.] Just eat it. Better you than me, chocolate goes straight to my hips.