[[also cw for some hints of racism at the end yay]]
"Thank you," she says, managing to sound only a little droll. "I'm sure it will be handled when the time is right."
She picks up her wallet, keys, and phone, adjusts her hijab a bit, and heads out with him.
On their way to the subway station she eventually resumes the conversation, speaking slow and thoughtfully: "No one is strictly benefiting from this, no. But you have to consider what this would mean to Greta. She wants to go home, and we've promised to find a way. She has a husband there, a son. She doesn't expect them to wait for her long - life expectancy in that world isn't what it is to us. I don't want to make myself an obstacle. I don't want to confuse her. If she became involved with anyone here, it would be - a distraction. Temporary at best. An unwanted intrusion at worst."
She sighs heavily. It's hard to think along these lines, but it's important, too, to say it out loud. Reinforce it for herself. As close as she's come recently to spilling this truth, it merits revisiting.
"That's not even getting into the other thing," she says. She waits to continue until they've navigated the morning commuters, have slid through the turnstiles, and are waiting on the platform. "She didn't know people like us existed until she got here. Sexual and gender fluidity, that's - there's so much that's all foreign to her. She's adapting, of course, but it's one thing to know it exists and another to confront it in yourself, after a lifetime of knowing and living a solitary option." She shakes her head, pulling her arms around herself - enjoying the fact that she can. "There's no way I can think for me to tell her how I feel without it being a predominantly selfish act."
The train arrives, loud and grating, and she steps on. A woman moves conspicuously to avoid standing near her; a man gives her a lingering dirty look. She ignores them. This is easy. They do not matter.
apparently it was time for heavy introspection, do u regret asking yet rush
"Thank you," she says, managing to sound only a little droll. "I'm sure it will be handled when the time is right."
She picks up her wallet, keys, and phone, adjusts her hijab a bit, and heads out with him.
On their way to the subway station she eventually resumes the conversation, speaking slow and thoughtfully: "No one is strictly benefiting from this, no. But you have to consider what this would mean to Greta. She wants to go home, and we've promised to find a way. She has a husband there, a son. She doesn't expect them to wait for her long - life expectancy in that world isn't what it is to us. I don't want to make myself an obstacle. I don't want to confuse her. If she became involved with anyone here, it would be - a distraction. Temporary at best. An unwanted intrusion at worst."
She sighs heavily. It's hard to think along these lines, but it's important, too, to say it out loud. Reinforce it for herself. As close as she's come recently to spilling this truth, it merits revisiting.
"That's not even getting into the other thing," she says. She waits to continue until they've navigated the morning commuters, have slid through the turnstiles, and are waiting on the platform. "She didn't know people like us existed until she got here. Sexual and gender fluidity, that's - there's so much that's all foreign to her. She's adapting, of course, but it's one thing to know it exists and another to confront it in yourself, after a lifetime of knowing and living a solitary option." She shakes her head, pulling her arms around herself - enjoying the fact that she can. "There's no way I can think for me to tell her how I feel without it being a predominantly selfish act."
The train arrives, loud and grating, and she steps on. A woman moves conspicuously to avoid standing near her; a man gives her a lingering dirty look. She ignores them. This is easy. They do not matter.