It's not that she doubts most of what he says. That she doesn't know. How alone he'd been in that house, on the moon. It's. It's just.
It's the kind of explanation and apology that would fit three or four months into that situation, maybe six, but at a full year and a half later, it comes off oblivious, careless, beyond unobservant, well into unconcerned. A doubled apology only after your hand is already caught in the cookie jar, and only because it is. (And how well does she know that one, too?) How much longer might it have been if she hadn't had this 'isn't it funny' random encounter with that young girl? When did it all start?
It takes her back. To Jane, childishly kicking her feet again the wall. It drags furrowing razor-sharp nails through the want to demand other names. But she did that last time, didn't she? (Promise Me.) Made demands. Like she had some right. One she obviously doesn't. And -- worse? -- she doesn't want to. That wasn't what this was supposed to be. What they were supposed to be.
It was the one true thing she'd never had to force. Demand. Control. Change the world to suit her. The one that chose her. As she was. Always.
Had.
Returning to the question at the end makes her realize a step too late, that even in the middle of this discussion about Luther not telling her things, she did it again. She blurts out everything without thinking to stop herself. Admitting the worst about her marriage in minutes. Saying Claire's name, like it hadn't been buried for over two years. Telling him about Stadler's, about not even being sorry. And even this. Even this in the middle of Luther not, things keep pouring out of her. Angry and too aware of the cost, of the culpability and the consequences.
Like she could never keep her mouth shut around him. She could mute out a whole life to endless faces. Friends. Even her husband. But not Luther.
"I mean, losing everything."
It's crueler than it needs to sound, and she knows it. But she doesn't stop it.
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How alone he'd been in that house, on the moon. It's. It's just.
It's the kind of explanation and apology that would fit three or four months into that situation, maybe six, but at a full year and a half later, it comes off oblivious, careless, beyond unobservant, well into unconcerned. A doubled apology only after your hand is already caught in the cookie jar, and only because it is. (And how well does she know that one, too?) How much longer might it have been if she hadn't had this 'isn't it funny' random encounter with that young girl? When did it all start?
It takes her back. To Jane, childishly kicking her feet again the wall. It drags furrowing razor-sharp nails through the want to demand other names. But she did that last time, didn't she? (Promise Me.) Made demands. Like she had some right. One she obviously doesn't. And -- worse? -- she doesn't want to. That wasn't what this was supposed to be. What they were supposed to be.
It was the one true thing she'd never had to force.
Demand. Control. Change the world to suit her.
The one that chose her. As she was. Always.
Had.
Returning to the question at the end makes her realize a step too late, that even in the middle of this discussion about Luther not telling her things, she did it again. She blurts out everything without thinking to stop herself. Admitting the worst about her marriage in minutes. Saying Claire's name, like it hadn't been buried for over two years. Telling him about Stadler's, about not even being sorry. And even this. Even this in the middle of Luther not, things keep pouring out of her. Angry and too aware of the cost, of the culpability and the consequences.
Like she could never keep her mouth shut around him.
She could mute out a whole life to endless faces.
Friends. Even her husband. But not Luther.
"I mean, losing everything."
It's crueler than it needs to sound,
and she knows it. But she doesn't stop it.