That made David pause. Everyone had their share of terrible experiences, to be sure ... although one might think that the Morlock Massacre would be enough experience for just about anyone. It seemed as though it wasn't, though, not for this woman, and whatever shit days he'd gone through David still choked slightly at what Arla had just described. Something like that seemed to go beyond general anger, it felt targeted and cruel in a way that left a bitter taste in the back of David's mouth, one that had absolutely nothing to do with the terrible vodka.
" 'I'm sorry' doesn't really come close," he murmured, shaking his head. Leaning forward slightly to prop his elbows on his knees, David took in her struggles with the muscles of her hand without comment. Her hands were webbed, he suddenly noticed. Which tied the comment about gills smoothly into the picture, some sort of amphibious donation to human physiology that let her breathe in both places? He could imagine that coming in handy, although the soft light from the television through the webbing made her seem almost fragile. Or maybe it was the subject matter.
"This sounds like a sales pitch," he acknowledged slightly wryly, "but if you ever need to get any of it off your chest I'm around. That, or any other coping mechanism ... better alchohol, for example. I think I might have half of a bottle of scotch that wouldn't double as paint thinner."