The clock chimed in a silent room. It marked the passing of another hour of the twenty four. "You are not misbehaving," crackled out.
She was now confident she had heard correctly but too tired to respond with surprise, or anything really. "No, I am not misbehaving," she stated.
She would have found him, looked in his eyes, tried to smooth over any misunderstandings; but it wasn't allowed. Like dialogue. Her hands glided along invisible rules and invisible walls noting their asperity and discrepancy. They chanted history, were flavoured with people and the lines of tension left by negotiations won and lost for things long forgotten: listening intrigued her but was forbidden, like touch. Only what you couldn't help. Strength, discipline, application, restraint honed at every step. Spartan. Samurai.
She smiled and headed out to the flower garden, picking up a Kirspy Kreme from the table on the way out. She didn't mind that it was raining in the least. Peace.
She would have taken his hands and danced badly with him but he disapproved. She wasn't sure why she was there.
For him. For herself, she loved him and thought it might all work itself out, though she was no longer sure why or how. And she hadn't noticed an exit.