"And obviously, you need someone that loves you," Loki continued.
The truth of his words stung harder than I'd thought they would, and I swallowed hard. "He wants to love you, I think, but he can't. "Every time I've seen him around you, he's telling you what to do, pushing you around." He shook his head and went back to making the bed. "You think Finn doesn't?" I asked, standing up straight. "No, of course I'm not good enough for you," Loki said, and I lifted my head to look up at him, surprised by his response. "But I suppose you think you are?" I asked with a sarcastic laugh. "I don't know if that's a lie or not, but I do know that he was never good enough for you." I continued to pull on the sheets, but Loki stopped, watching me. I'd started putting new sheets on the bed, and he went around to the other side to help me. "I've never understood exactly what your relationship with him was, anyway," Loki said. He caught them easily before setting them down by the door, presumably for Duncan to take to the laundry chute again. "My feelings for him have no bearing on his ability to do his job." "But I know you had a soft spot for Finn," Loki continued. The bedding got stuck on a corner, and Loki came over to help me free it. "Finn can handle himself," I said tersely. "But you were okay with Finn going off to Oslinna, but not Duncan?" We went into the next room, and he set down the vacuum as I started peeling the dusty blankets off the bed. "You called him by his name this morning." "His name is Finn, and I know you know that," I said as I left the room. “But you sent off that Flounder fellow," Loki said, and I rolled my eyes. ― Jean-Dominique Bauby, quote from The Diving Bell and the Butterfly
One day I hope to fasten them end to end in a half-mile streamer, to float in the wind like a banner raised to the glory of friendship. A couple of lines or eight pages, a Middle Eastern stamp or a suburban postmark. Capturing the moment, these small slices of life, these small gusts of happiness, move me more deeply than all the rest. Other letters simply relate the small events that punctuate the passage of time: roses picked at dusk, the laziness of a rainy Sunday, a child crying himself to sleep. Had I been blind and deaf, or does it take the harsh light of disaster to show a person's true nature? Their small talk has masked hidden depths. And by a curious reversal, the people who focus most closely on these fundamental questions tend to be people I had known only superficially. Some of them are serious in tone, discussing the meaning of life, invoking the supremacy of the soul, the mystery of every existence. They are opened for me, unfolded, and spread out before my eyes in a daily ritual that gives the arrival of the mail the character of a hushed and holy ceremony.
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