After everything, haven't we earned it? [Margo reaches out toward him, but stops herself, the recognition of just what would happen surfacing in her mind. Her hand holds in place, her eyes on it, and then she ... draws it back. No risk of skin touching. They're close, impossibly so, but there's still the sense that that ... is too much.

(Though it's occurred to her that it could do wonders for them. Bring them together again. Make them what they were.

But it could also do the exact opposite. It could remind her of the difference. Could remind her of all of it.

Them. Remind them.)]

It's either that or we become secretaries—living out pitiful, meaningless lives. That's not us.

[Entry level ... anything is just.

A nightmare.]