andhiswife | (Reply)

Greta sits back on her heels as the coughing fit subsides, making a soft, exasperated noise once she's recovered enough to do so. She hates being ill; it makes everything so bloody dramatic. Granted, it's not her illness's fault that she went scrambling at the television like a madwoman, but at least she could've done it without the unpleasant addition of coughing like someone with one foot in the grave. She's worrying Thomas. That wasn't her intention, obviously, but she does feel a twinge of guilt. She finds his hand and gives it an apologetic squeeze, even as she continues to stare at the screen.

After taking a few slow, careful breaths, making sure she isn't about to devolve into another coughing jag, she nods at the television. "It's--she looks just like her. The Witch from next door."

Which is a thing that happens -- people looking like other people -- and now that the initial shock has worn off, she begins to feel a bit foolish. "Even the way she looks at people," she adds, a touch plaintively, as if that will excuse her behavior.