"I wouldn't say it's too often- and I was referring to Twila as the overly chaotic and hormonal bitch. Not myself. I am not hormonal." She was almost fucking forty and far beyond that, or at the least truly ought to be. "And I know an abundance of men like that. I'd count you as part of them on occasion-"

Wait. Two? She only recalled the one rather long argument, then again she was quite often terrible at keeping track of conversational fuckups until the chance to smooth things over had long since passed. "If he kills me it won't last. Unless, of course, it does and I might be glad to be rid of this place."

A black, bitter thought, one she'd set aside time and time again and locked up somewhere she wouldn't think of it; Twila's lovely little mucking about dragged it to the front. After all, what was more selfish than just. Ending everything so you wouldn't have to bother? It wasn't a pleasant thing to hear and she didn't know if it would counteract anything for her to reach out and curl a hand around his. "Not posturing. Just. Being frustratingly decent."