Take it from her? [ Harold blinks, nonplussed, John's words at total odds with his own perspective.
And certainly at odds with Grace herself. He may have left her behind -- cruelly, without giving her a choice, as he'd said -- but Harold feels like he carries her with him every day. He goes to see her from a safe distance so often because his mind wanders toward her, and he needs some kind of verifiable evidence that she does still exist. That she's safe. That she loved him once and loves him still.
Harold steps around the table and its pile of Valentine's tasks, and he doesn't touch John but stands closer, shortening the distance between them. A rueful smile twists his lips. ]
Do you know, I once offered to tell her who I really was. What I really did. And she said ... I should tell her in my own time. That there was nothing I could say that would make her run away.
[ It's soft, sad, love tied up with loss in a bittersweet knot. But Harold is so completely secure in his understanding of Grace that there's no hesitation about sharing what she'd taught him, widening their circle to let someone in. She wouldn't want him to be alone, or hurting. Or depriving himself of fine espresso, for that matter. ]
Grace wouldn't begrudge me having coffee with someone else. [ Whatever 'having coffee' means here; Harold doesn't feel the need to define it. Emotional intimacy, perhaps. ] I think she'd like you very much, John.
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And certainly at odds with Grace herself. He may have left her behind -- cruelly, without giving her a choice, as he'd said -- but Harold feels like he carries her with him every day. He goes to see her from a safe distance so often because his mind wanders toward her, and he needs some kind of verifiable evidence that she does still exist. That she's safe. That she loved him once and loves him still.
Harold steps around the table and its pile of Valentine's tasks, and he doesn't touch John but stands closer, shortening the distance between them. A rueful smile twists his lips. ]
Do you know, I once offered to tell her who I really was. What I really did. And she said ... I should tell her in my own time. That there was nothing I could say that would make her run away.
[ It's soft, sad, love tied up with loss in a bittersweet knot. But Harold is so completely secure in his understanding of Grace that there's no hesitation about sharing what she'd taught him, widening their circle to let someone in. She wouldn't want him to be alone, or hurting. Or depriving himself of fine espresso, for that matter. ]
Grace wouldn't begrudge me having coffee with someone else. [ Whatever 'having coffee' means here; Harold doesn't feel the need to define it. Emotional intimacy, perhaps. ] I think she'd like you very much, John.