She couldn't decide: was her persona too bracing a presence to put up with for very long--two quick slaps of Aqua Velva could be good on occasion, but a lifetime supply as either bathwater or beverage would be too, too much of something that was definitely optional--or maybe she was just a bitch? So she went back and forth. It was them. No, it was her, all her, always had been. Then she'd drop it for a while and just go on.
She couldn't believe that people actually believed in a coherent narrative arc to their own lives, one in which if they only knew which strand, which subplot was going to turn out to be the main one, they could finally put their efforts to most use. Which woman was the right woman, which job was the right job, which house was the best set for the movie of their life, which car sent the exact message they wanted to send to other people about who they were on the inside. Gas mileage and moral seriousness of the Prius, or creamy leather seats and the opportunity to offer passengers a warmed bucket seat in the Lexus? Time is ticking down, people. Decide already. These movies rarely go over two hours.
It's not that she disagreed. That word, the word she had used, did have some negative connotations. She wasn't disputing that. But taken globally, taking who she was and who he was to her and the whole frankness of the situation and the length of their relationship and there were probably many more possible mitigators, how could he think she meant to wound him with that word? She who barely bothered to speak to other people seriously, was handing him cut diamonds and he was complaining that they had pointy bits.
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