Ideally, she'd never have to share him - and yet, here they are. He lets her go, leaning back against the couch, and wonders cloudily if there's a right way through this quagmire of a situation. No, he suspects, is the answer. No matter what they do, one - or, more likely, both - of them is going to end up unhappy.

Depressing as the thought is, there's something almost freeing about it. Maybe because he's drunk just enough to make an ass of himself but not so much to be sloppy. If every choice is wrong, if there's no way to win, then what does it matter what happens next? Perhaps it's enough to choose something, even if it's guaranteed to leave him miserable in the long run.

The thought is buoying, almost revelatory. It makes it far easier to ask, "Here and now, when you imagine it - finding me at one of those godsdamned festivals of theirs, doing something indiscreet with someone you know. You don't feel a twinge of...of jealousy? Or disappointment?"