"Oh I will," Iman assures her with a little smile. "You'll probably have to help me."

And that's okay. Greta's happy to help. Iman's happy to show her. It's fine.

She follows Greta into the kitchen and starts snooping through the cupboards for glassware. "These'll do," she says, taking out a couple simple tumblers - not appropriate for proper cocktails but who's counting. She sets them beside the bottles and starts pointing to each in turn. "All right, these fellas are gin and vodka, soon to be our best friends. This one's triple sec, less of a friend and more a notable acquaintance. The soda water and the cranberry juice are gonna go in your fridge, and we'll see what else we can throw together. D'you happen to have any limes?"

There now, starting to feel more like yourself, now that you've got business to attend to, instructions to dole out. She fusses slightly over her hijab before pushing it back entirely. Fuck it. It's warm today and she's still feeling vaguely unsettled, needs to strip a layer.