He didn't like that she talked to his mother. That she wanted to talk to his mother. That his mother liked her and probably wanted to talk to her. That they got along at all. He didn't like that her sarcastic little comment had made him scoff and was genuinely amusing. It made him view her as a threat, but then again, she always was a threat. There was just something about her, and about them, that indeed kept bringing them back together as noted upward. Of that he'd always agree without hesitation. Heretofore though, he hadn't decided if it was yet a blessing or a curse.
As the elevator shot upward slowly and artfully as a water display at the Bellagio, or perhaps as eagerly as a dopesick junkie, he peered down his nose at her with narrow eyes. "Just call her. She's had the shock of her week already." He didn't mention what it was, not yet. "And by the way, if you want to go back to your boring job, unexciting and less opulent lifestyle, ugly boyfriend and retarded friends at any time, feel free."
He couldn't wait to be upstairs and begin planning out how they were going to section the penthouse in such a way that separated their every deed. Maybe he bring her to Ikea tonight, to browse the museum-like displays of self-isolating house creativity.