Santana really liked Mercy, she did, but she was beginning to find the woman to be sort of weird. Not the weird she was used to; not the Sam Evans here-let-me-interrupt-this-serious-conversation-to-show-you-my-impression-of-a-dude-from-a-movie-only-two-people-have-seen weird. No, Mercy's weird was a lot more subtle.
Like, first of all, who was that calm and complacent all of the time? Nobody was. What kind of person offered to do manual labor just because? Nobody did. It weirded her out. She suddenly really wanted to figure this chick out.
"Jeez, mom, cálmate. First of all, I was talking all kinds of weird creature of the night, not just zombies. Second, I was joking. That shit you're talking about is a type of homicide, and my mom gave me the 'no killing' talk after my Tio Michael went to jail. Totally not me."
She prepared herself to harp on Mercy's clearly not getting her, but another thought occurred to her instead. "Speaking of: How old are you, even? Judging by the display of Gucci's spring line you've got set up beneath your eyes, you're older than me, but I can't decide if you're MILF old, or like, Anne Hathaway old.