"That's David." She's still not looking, but she wants to. It sneaks into her voice, something affectionate and sad twisted up together. (That's David, too, that perpetual feeling of I love you and I don't know if this is going to work out.) "Yes. Pardon. He was--"

The way she comes up short, trying to finish that sentence in a way that means anything, probably means something in itself. Everything sounds so trite--or worse, too fragile. She might as well hand over her heart and hope William's hands aren't too rough to hold it.

"--my nemesis. Yes. Sort of." The truth, or something like it, even if it's only a fragment of the whole. Behind her, David's smile is as tentative as Ruth's, his head tilting down with hers, just a little too much to look like himself.