I remember. "Under the bludgeonings of chance, my head is bloody, but unbowed." [She's still completely lost on what he's trying to talk about, but she remembers how upset he'd been over the story/riddle she'd told just prior to the poem too.
She leans across the table to touch his arm and speak sincerely.] It's not much-- I can't give you what you're looking for, I think, but I'm here to listen if you need it. I am here for you.
[And he glances down at her hand on his arm, and back up to her. He's not going to crack and confess himself, all the things that are swirling inside him and eating him up. Even if he'd been raised that way, he doesn't believe it falls within his contract; he doesn't want to put ideas into anyone else's head.
Memories, they'd been talking about. Memories of home. His head spins when he tries to think about it, images of closer family than his own and school and work and friends all mixed together, so he just thanks her.] You're a ridiculously good person, despite everything. And if I ever need to talk about it all—I will come to you. But not today.
Are you sure I can't get you something? A glass of water, maybe? I wish we had tea. [He's changing the subject, with a nervous patter of hospitality.]
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She leans across the table to touch his arm and speak sincerely.] It's not much-- I can't give you what you're looking for, I think, but I'm here to listen if you need it. I am here for you.
no subject
Memories, they'd been talking about. Memories of home. His head spins when he tries to think about it, images of closer family than his own and school and work and friends all mixed together, so he just thanks her.] You're a ridiculously good person, despite everything. And if I ever need to talk about it all—I will come to you. But not today.
Are you sure I can't get you something? A glass of water, maybe? I wish we had tea. [He's changing the subject, with a nervous patter of hospitality.]