[her anger does not fade, and while there is something bitter that twists in her at the idea of being cared for - something guilty, something touched, something disbelieving - she presses on]
Then allow me to say that caring for someone matters not if it is only in feeling, not action.
Knowing that you would rather inflict loss upon me than suffer it yourself is selfish indeed, and I will not say thank you.
I'm in no way the possessor of some greater understanding of you, or less selfishly hoping for yours and others' protection and safety.
I'm just a fallible, imperfect human.
[she withdraws a small ribbon-wrapped jar from her pocket, and carefully places it on a wooden ledge marking off a line of flowers in the garden. within, obscured slightly by the ribbon, is a black tea shot with blue flowers.]
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no subject
Then allow me to say that caring for someone matters not if it is only in feeling, not action.
Knowing that you would rather inflict loss upon me than suffer it yourself is selfish indeed, and I will not say thank you.
no subject
I'm in no way the possessor of some greater understanding of you, or less selfishly hoping for yours and others' protection and safety.
I'm just a fallible, imperfect human.
[she withdraws a small ribbon-wrapped jar from her pocket, and carefully places it on a wooden ledge marking off a line of flowers in the garden. within, obscured slightly by the ribbon, is a black tea shot with blue flowers.]
Thank you for granting me some of your time.
[and she turns, walking to leave the garden.]