Reagan & Luke | Towards the end of the second act
Her lips tugged around another contemplative hum as she watched the Stable Boy wink out into the audience. An appreciative rumble of laughter responded from the crowd.
Luke was self-aware and oblivious in equal measures, it seemed. For all that he could see himself in the more traditional representation of the role, he altogether missed the roguish confidence and easy familiarity that he shared with the newer take. But then it had also taken her decades to realize it herself, and she liked to think herself the more observant of the two.
They both had blind spots.
"Well who was to say he had to be the fool all the time?" she asked, a private aside that spoke beyond the silly play unfolding before them. She noted his eyes once again on her hands, and this time she moved them both to her lap, suddenly self conscious and not entirely sure he wasn't teasing her when he said she was clever. "I like the focus," she admitted. It was what made work such a perfect escape. It was all-encompassing, a fully dedicated task that let her shut out any and all other encroachments upon her mind or emotions. At least up until recently, anyway. "Thimbles make it harder to feel what I'm doing. Easier to make mistakes that way."
She shot air through her nostrils. "It's bad when you have six orders to complete by a deadline," she muttered dryly, glancing up as Molly returned to set their drinks down before slipping back into the audience. "Cloves don't appreciate imperfections, especially not in their clothes." She paused, and then concedingly added, "Neither do I, for that matter. And..." Her voice dipped so that her next words were spoken directly into the ale she raised to her lips, "I wanted to come tonight."