A time machine probably wouldn't work, and if it did, it'd cause more trouble than it solved, he figures. Daryl doesn't think about going back, much; there're things he regrets, sure, things he'd do different, problems he'd fix or avoid, but the list's too long to make sense of. He tries to live in the moment. It's hard enough managing that.

He tucks an arm under his head, propping it up a bit more, his fingers brushing hers. There's something strange about such a mundane conversation, but he doesn't mind. It's... Nice. Maybe talking about something abstract and unimportant will keep the mood light, so they don't have to deal with everything at home, with the potential awkwardness of here.

"What kind?"

Chick flicks probably, right?