Re: second floor ; smoking
It didn't seem right to him, that this woman should be forced to hide what was real in exchange for material goods and a companion. But if he thought hard enough the assassin could almost recall a similar world, a glittering, shining bubble of flimsiness and falsehoods. It was too bright for him. He shied a way from such things. "I do know that habits can be difficult to break," he said, and that rang true here and beyond. "I've learned to tolerate attention, but I-- yes, I suppose it does make me uncomfortable. It's tiring." Being under constant scrutiny came easily for some, but he found more often than not it required pretense and maintaining a facade always took its toll sooner or later.
He didn't do well with vulnerability. Not now, not then; it prickled uneasily along his spine and made him crave safety behind walls no one could penetrate unless he gave permission. Pretense was tiring, yes, but it was safe. In lieu of that there was isolation, which required little effort to maintain once it was established. "No," he agreed quietly. "A man who leaves broken hearts in his wake without care is not fit for love." That wasn't him. Maybe it should have been, but that guise was one which would not fit even if he tried to wear it; no, that wasn't him. "You deserve a man like that, who will place you above all else and love more than just what he sees." Such men were rare, but they existed. His father, he thought, was one. Even as a child he'd looked upon his parents and known. This woman seemed kind enough, and why should she not deserve happiness? "I should say that real men are never frightened," he laughed. "Vulnerability is dangerous. I think men like me are too suspicious to be vulnerable easily." Again, her opinion on disinterest reminded him of someone else, and oddly enough, he felt defensive despite the fact that she hadn't specifically called him disinterested. "What if what you perceive to be disinterest is merely a man who hasn't quite mastered the art of expressing emotion?" An innocent enough question indeed. "Are words enough then?"
There was no way in which he could argue, because she was right; money could only do so much. "It's better than nothing," he said, though there was no real belief in that statement, and he shook his head at the thought of dying for love as though to rid himself of it. "I haven't forgotten, but better to live for it than to die. In death, love is only pain." Memories were never enough. Nothing was ever enough, because nothing could replace a physical being, nothing could replicate their voice, their touch, the way their eyes crinkled up or the curl of their lips in a smile. Remembering only made the absence ache more. "Perhaps I'm not the man she wants any longer, or perhaps I'm not enough," he shrugged. The assassin didn't want to talk about the woman who muddied his mind and became entangled in what was real and what was not. "I don't expect them to know," he responded carefully. "Assuming never turns out well. It is easier to tell some than to tell others." Yes, that sounded right.
"Some can be," he quipped. "And that would make women the ones who hold the leash and draw them back time and time again." He looked up when she apologized, managing a small smile, though she had nothing to be sorry for. "Thank you. My father was a good man." A pause, and he frowned. Everyone had family at one time or another. "They've gone, your family?"