"Ana, get back in the car...please. Please get back in the car. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that, and I’m sorry. It won’t happen again. Please...let’s just go. Now? Please?"
We try. We don’t know any better, but we try. We try to know and to find ways of making things better. Things we have no control over. Better and right. More memorable.
"Ana, I’m sorry. There’s nothing wrong with Elvis Costello. I had no idea what his music means to you. I won’t make fun of his voice any more."
Instincts, defense mechanisms against pain. Can we help it? Bitten too many times we hide, behind disguises, from pain but also from happiness. We hold back, and lose the best parts of ourselves and our lives with other people to a repulsive fear of rejection that drives us away from them.
"We can listen to whatever you want. This Year’s Model is good. My Aim Is True? The Juliet Letters? You like that, right? Or Spike? You love Spike. I don’t mind, really. Let’s just go."
She turns her right shoulder just enough to bark, "It’s not about the music," then keeps walking.
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