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16 "She just..." he started softly, brushing his fingers over her desktop as though it were her skin itself. "She doesn't know that this can be love, too. Sometimes it's hearts and flowers and poetry... but sometimes it just is, and..." He looked up at the stained ceiling with a sad little smile on his face. "Sometimes it just is."
What was she doing? She'd brought him food, he was obviously ill, he needed... someone. And she'd left anyway. Why was she still doing that to him? Every time, she'd walked away. Every last time. She stood out in front of the station house, trying to rally her pathetic confusion into something that would let her do something. Anger. Anger sounded good. Dammit, Denby... this is your fault. In her head, she could almost hear him answer. What's my fault? The wind went out of her sails at once. It couldn't be his fault if she didn't know what it was. Let's try something else. Fear? Afraid? Of the pathetic, tear-stained little guy up in the squadroom currently shoving greasy fries into his face and moping? It wasn't happening. As she stood at the curb thinking, a yellow cab pulled up and waited, then had a hole appear in it where the front passenger window was. "Whaddaya waitin' for?" What am I waiting for? What was she waiting for? Diane turned away.
"You have a doctorate in what?" "I have several postgraduate degrees." "Learn any of 'em in English?" Sam took several quick steps over to the holographic detective, and if Harry were really there, he would have shoved him. "I don't know," he retorted. "Is that what you're speaking?"
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