"C'est la vie." Simply spoken from the red-headed young man who lifted both of his eyebrows in a surprisingly challenging manner. "I am who I am, Chere. You are who who are, non? Even if you ain' anymore." If that made sense to her, then she was on the same wavelength as he was.. if not, then she'd be one of many people who didn't always get Cajun Logic. "If you was alive, you divorce your husban' an' come be mine." That was said rather confidently, as he took a step forward to bring himself too close. Uncomfortably close. Intimately close. "But you ain'. No use cryin' ov'r spill milk, oui? You talkin' 'bou' all 'dese t'in's you done, all 'dese t'in's you coul'a done. Ain' doin' you no good. Ain' doin' 'dat boy yours no good. You screwe' up, non? You dea'. An' you rottin'. Ain' you ain' sleepin' 'roun' no more, 'case t'in's star' fallin' off." He couldn't help the way his mouth twisted up as he said that.
"But how lon' you gon' t'ink 'bou' it? You got 'terni'y, you gon' t'ink 'bou' it 'til ain' not'in' lef' of 'de worl'? C'est ridicule. C'est prodigue. Someone screwe' up an' you stuck here. Here. You here, Chere. Not 'dere. Here. You spen' half 'de time t'inkin' 'bou' now as you spen' t'inkin' 'bou' 'den, an' I bet you get t'in's figure' out here real fas'." He moved an ungloved finger (just two out of five) to poke her in the chest with it, just above her breasts, against her sternum, missing the metal protruding. "Dites-moi donc. Wha's somet'in' you wan' do righ' now? 'Dis minu'e. Don' t'ink har', jus' say wha' come up firs'. Wha' you wan' do, righ' now?"