Firmly rooted in last week's episode, I present Olivia's thoughts after the final scene. Thanking in advance for the kindness of your visit...

To Move in Thought

I speak of love that comes to mind:

The moon is faithful, although blind;

She moves in thought she cannot speak.

Perfect care has made her bleak.

An Eastern Ballad by Allen Ginsberg

Because he wears a sweater over a button-down, she wants to tell him.

He looks respectable tonight, forgoing the twenty-something apparel he favors and she thinks she likes the educated look. This is the put-together ensemble of one who publishes papers on things she'll never understand. It's nine-to-five clashing with his mischievous eyes and yet he might be nervous. Drinks have been downed many times over cases that stretch the definition of reality but this is meant to be different. She'd loosed her hair and found a reflection smiling back, the rarity of which only made the butterflies multiply. He's willing to be respectable for her but her lies have changed in one glance. Just when she's ready to end the myth of her disinterest, she must hold back for the sake of a glow.

Because she was told not to, she wants to tell him.

Retaliation is the oldest motive for hurtful deeds and she thinks the liar is counting on this. Bound by a need to protect, she is stifled into compliance by the pitiful voice pleading for silence. Whatever she thinks she knows is likely nothing compared to fact, which scares her even as she plasters on a smile. There's no time to decide between the lesser of two betrayals and the hesitation scalding inside her eyes is chained away. She takes his arm as they reenter the world that she knows isn't his. Every opening toward admission is trodden by the 'please' whispered by the grieving. Not hers to mourn nor hers to break. The ability is amputated by her skillful hand but the clearer vision heals nothing.

Because the alcohol burns, she wants to tell him.

The temptation is to drink and thus be released from responsibility for the vacuity of words. But he seems so content and shattering the peace tastes of mortal infidelity. Only weeks ago she'd looked into his fevered eyes and swore upon another man's grave that should he survive, she'd accept every truth in deference to forgiving fate. Liquor will make her keep that vow. Yet it's difficult to speak when the coating of her throat ignites as the fire of good scotch is followed by the salve of sweet wine. Words cannot be pushed past the pain. Too much knowledge is chased away by too much alcohol, strangling the confession and resurrecting the guilt. He deserves to know but choice is the greatest fable of all.

Because he glimmers, she wants to tell him.

It's beautiful and frightening all at once, the shade of his nature that immobilizes her. He pushes her to confide, sensing things that she'd routinely share and every assurance she utters digs deeper the space between them. Takes them a step back and a dimension away. The power to see what does not belong is of unnatural origin and though she'd allowed the resurgence of the gift for the benefit of many lives, it's a slow death to the bearer. She wonders if the trade of strangers for him is worth it. Sobriety is not required for the answer. Locked away in the safety of isolation, the contents of her anguished mind are free to spill out into poisoned tears. Perfect care is given to the lie and with it, two worlds become bleak.