"I'm thinking, okay?"
She is thinking that Marshall is in love with her. She is thinking that it couldn't be any clearer if he had tattooed it on his forehead. She is thinking she's glad he didn't—as long as his meaning is veiled in hints and implications, she doesn't have to acknowledge it. For now, she can run.
She runs to Stan, who tells her some story she doesn't really listen to. Forgetting herself, she plants a kiss on his forehead. She peeks at Marshall from the corner of her eye. He thinks he blew it, that he wasn't clear enough, that she hadn't understood.
I understand more than you think, Marshall. She understands that next time, he won't be so oblique. Next time, she won't be able to escape. She can act dumb, unable to figure out his not-so-hidden message. She can be forever blind to the thinly-disguised longing in his eyes, but when he finally does away with his allusions, and gives it to her straight—I love you, Mary—she cannot pretend to be deaf.
She knows this and so she runs farther, to Faber. She stands in the sun and sips fine wine and does not think of Marshall drinking alone until he can't see straight and the ache in his head distracts from the one in his heart.
She can't help it—she's been running her whole life but she can't keep it up forever. At some point her heart will give up and her legs will collapse and the best she can hope is that there'll be someone to catch her when she falls.
