"Too bad," he snaps, turning his blazing black eyes on her. "You went and broke your hand on the wall in the middle of a temper tantrum, I'm not letting you drive yourself to urgent care at midnight. Yet again you seem to forget your age." And her beauty, he's not letting her sit around an ER at midnight with the kinds of creeps who roll through. And because he doesn't trust her to actually go, more like he expects her to drive around and then have the car slip down the road, and he'd be down a Salome, and that would utterly crush him. Or she could go to some boyfriend, or maybe see if her mother's back in town, or do any number of things they would both regret with clearer heads.
Of course, he's not exactly in the state to take her to the doctor, either, considering: pajama pants, shirtlessness beneath his jacket, his wallet is on the end table and he didn't even grab his keys en route to his jacket. This is really all a result of the last five hours, though, a delirium of amazement, beauty, relentless work and now this. Unnecessary, insane. Infuriating. He feels hot and cold, all he wants to do is grab Salome and she her to make her understand. Oh, if only she understood, how can he make her understand!
"Don't you tell me what to do, Salome." He strides to her and makes an attempt to prise her keys from her hands before pointing at the kitchen table. "Sit down and do not move until I come back. I need to at least put on a shirt and get some money."
With another look to her on his way up the stairs, he says, "You're doing a very bad job responding to what I'm saying tonight. We need to look toward improving that," because it's more productive an activity than throttling her.
Oh, he loves her so. But the greatest loves are always tempered by an equally passionate flipside, and that's fine. He knows they'll come out of it, after all, it's simply that it's late, he's tired, and he's not looking forward to either the interim between this and her eventually warming up to him again, or the interim between now and Delilah's death because she didn't take 'I kind of jumped the gun, turns out we're not getting married after all but I still really appreciate that whole romantic double-homicide thing' as a positive thing to hear.
But, one thing at a time. First he wants to make sure his daughter's hand isn't broken, and even mad as he is, it narrows his attention down to the precision of a laser point. He moves swiftly, silently, Delilah not even stirring as he pulls on his shirt. For a few long heartbeats he stares down at her, sleeping in the dark, and he thinks about maybe just doing it now, while she sleeps, looking so beautiful. It would be peaceful for her.
Ah, but then she wouldn't be able to look him in the eyes.
Exhausted, Richard tugs his coat back on and makes his way down the stairs, practically praying for the impossible--that Salome hasn't left. Because if she has, he's probably going to have an aneurism.
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Of course, he's not exactly in the state to take her to the doctor, either, considering: pajama pants, shirtlessness beneath his jacket, his wallet is on the end table and he didn't even grab his keys en route to his jacket. This is really all a result of the last five hours, though, a delirium of amazement, beauty, relentless work and now this. Unnecessary, insane. Infuriating. He feels hot and cold, all he wants to do is grab Salome and she her to make her understand. Oh, if only she understood, how can he make her understand!
"Don't you tell me what to do, Salome." He strides to her and makes an attempt to prise her keys from her hands before pointing at the kitchen table. "Sit down and do not move until I come back. I need to at least put on a shirt and get some money."
With another look to her on his way up the stairs, he says, "You're doing a very bad job responding to what I'm saying tonight. We need to look toward improving that," because it's more productive an activity than throttling her.
Oh, he loves her so. But the greatest loves are always tempered by an equally passionate flipside, and that's fine. He knows they'll come out of it, after all, it's simply that it's late, he's tired, and he's not looking forward to either the interim between this and her eventually warming up to him again, or the interim between now and Delilah's death because she didn't take 'I kind of jumped the gun, turns out we're not getting married after all but I still really appreciate that whole romantic double-homicide thing' as a positive thing to hear.
But, one thing at a time. First he wants to make sure his daughter's hand isn't broken, and even mad as he is, it narrows his attention down to the precision of a laser point. He moves swiftly, silently, Delilah not even stirring as he pulls on his shirt. For a few long heartbeats he stares down at her, sleeping in the dark, and he thinks about maybe just doing it now, while she sleeps, looking so beautiful. It would be peaceful for her.
Ah, but then she wouldn't be able to look him in the eyes.
Exhausted, Richard tugs his coat back on and makes his way down the stairs, practically praying for the impossible--that Salome hasn't left. Because if she has, he's probably going to have an aneurism.