"Come on." "She's 46 years old. What are you doing?" He walked to the far wall and rolled up the wide shop door, the one that opened to the side street, letting in the gray morning light. The space between them got flatter and more visible, the shadows clearing out.
He didn't raise his voice. "I think you should go." He said. The softness in her expression shifted. "I'm serious."
"I'm worried about you." "You're making decisions that affect Marcus, that affect your reputation, and I just" "Tasha." He kept his voice even. "You don't get to use Marcus to walk into this space." Her jaw tightened.
The performance slipped slightly. What came through underneath it wasn't sadness, it was something harder, more like the frustration of someone whose script wasn't landing. "You think she's going to stay?" She said, her voice pulling a different thread now, colder. "A woman like that, with her life, you think you fit into it?"
"You're a carpenter, Ethan. You run a small shop, you have a kid." "What exactly are you bringing to her table?" He looked at her for a long moment. The shop was very quiet.
Then he pointed at the open door. He didn't say another word. He walked back to the workbench, picked up a piece of sandpaper, and waited. Tasha stood there long enough that the silence stopped being empty and became something with weight to it, and then she picked up her bag. At the threshold, she stopped.
"I will talk about this publicly. I have an audience. I will make this very difficult for you." He kept sanding. She left.