She's right. He can feel the guilt and anguish in him - a muted, throbbing wound torn by her proximity wide open again. Again, he begins to bleed. God, she tears into him.

"Or perhaps," he answers, "I want to observe the flowers. Is that so impossible?" He gives a small wave of his hand, directed at nothing in particular. "You're not the only one who appreciates the fine aesthetics of blooming trees, Sonia."