[ he means to make her say it. trouble is, peggy can't exactly identify what it ought to be. except -- except that it's some amorphous companion to the chest-tightening moment when he'd assured her that somehow, in some way, she was important to him. not necessarily regardless of her service record, but certainly independent of it.

it's not often that she finds herself caught speechless. dooley, in fact, once voiced his very surprise that she ever learned how to keep her mouth shut. but for a little longer she holds her tongue while she watches him look aside, betraying (or is it revealing?) a yearning for his routine to be returned to him. whiskey bottles, criminally undrunk.

no one piece of truth alone would do it, she thinks, and she's unwilling to give up all of them. yes, she'd said it. yes, she'd enjoyed them. yes, it was damned difficult not to return earlier. no, she's not indifferent. no, she doesn't think he's like 'all the rest.' no, her opinions haven't changed. not at heart. she's only made a clumsy attempt to mask them.

clumsy because they'd both been very plain and honest with one another as they'd danced. if not in words, then at least in spirit. it's not simply these little visits -- she's enjoyed him. ]

That's just it, [ she finally opens her mouth -- and there's something nearly apologetic in how her red lips twist in their corners, ] it doesn't matter whether or not I convince you. It won't make a lick of difference.

[ measures must still be taken.

and she won't jump through that hoop simply because he's placed it before her. if he thinks less of her for that obstruction, then so be it. the same can be said for the way she shakes the stiffness out of her arms and turns back towards the door. she'd resolved to reject him before he ever got the chance, before getting tangled together only brought on a pain worse than this. ]

Goodbye, Mister Hunter. And good night.