It is not a question she expects and, unfortunately, some of the meaning in it does not register with her all at once. Her brows lift dramatically as he looks over the cup at her and, for just a flicker of a moment, she feels a pressure in her chest, like a vice squeezing her heart and lungs. For a moment, she is concerned that he is breaking off their friendship--the thought lingers just long enough that she starts to answer him.
"Non--non-non--Nous sommes amis--"
She speaks her native language faster than Glennich and it gives her answer a greater sense of urgency than it might've otherwise had. She was correcting him, disallowing him from calling off their friendship, but it was in the wrong language. She caught herself quickly and, as she combed for the words in Glennich the subtleties of his questions registered and she paused. Her expression was tinged with equal parts frustration and relief.
He was asking what they had become and that was an easier question. Unfortunately, Glennich lacked a few of the words she would have liked to use.
"Do you know--paramour?" she asks and shifts her mug to one hand unconsciously, freeing the other to gesture and, in this case, snap her fingers as she concentrated and tried to find the nearest synonym. "Comment dites-vous...? Lover?"
It was not a perfect match, it lacked the illicit thrill, the implied delight and appeal of the Haugenne equivalent, but it was a close as she knew. (That it also let her contextualize them, that it set Adhemar apart from the memory of her husband, was lost in translation.)
"We are friends," she adds with more vehemence, her gaze locking on him again and her finger pointing at him in time. This is not a topic up for debate, whatever they had become. He could demand they cease dallying and she would respect that, but she would openly mourn if he refused to remain her friend. Pathetic as it was, he was all she had here.
no subject
"Non--non-non--Nous sommes amis--"
She speaks her native language faster than Glennich and it gives her answer a greater sense of urgency than it might've otherwise had. She was correcting him, disallowing him from calling off their friendship, but it was in the wrong language. She caught herself quickly and, as she combed for the words in Glennich the subtleties of his questions registered and she paused. Her expression was tinged with equal parts frustration and relief.
He was asking what they had become and that was an easier question. Unfortunately, Glennich lacked a few of the words she would have liked to use.
"Do you know--paramour?" she asks and shifts her mug to one hand unconsciously, freeing the other to gesture and, in this case, snap her fingers as she concentrated and tried to find the nearest synonym. "Comment dites-vous...? Lover?"
It was not a perfect match, it lacked the illicit thrill, the implied delight and appeal of the Haugenne equivalent, but it was a close as she knew. (That it also let her contextualize them, that it set Adhemar apart from the memory of her husband, was lost in translation.)
"We are friends," she adds with more vehemence, her gaze locking on him again and her finger pointing at him in time. This is not a topic up for debate, whatever they had become. He could demand they cease dallying and she would respect that, but she would openly mourn if he refused to remain her friend. Pathetic as it was, he was all she had here.
"Friends and paramour are not exclusive."