She comes running towards him, and it's almost perfect how beautiful it is, slow motion and everything. She runs as if her life depends on it, and it's all stars and sunlight. And then he remembers: she's the enemy. He can't feel this way. His hand comes down in one cutting swoop, and suddenly the waves of the Red Sea converge in a flurry of foraged eggs that come pelting down at her, their fragile shells shattering her already-broken heart. These are his people. They are his, and she is not. In a mean bit of old-style racism, even the slightly darker hue of her skin supports his grand metaphorical visions of her as the Pharaoh and him as Moses as these waters rush down down down with an almost frightening intensity. If he were her, he'd run. He'd be gone. But she isn't, she just stays there and covers her face from the brunt of the blow. And goddamn, if that doesn't screw up his grandiose schemes, he doesn't know what does. Pharaoh isn't supposed to curl up and quietly submit. (s)He's supposed to scream and rage, rage against the dying of the light and the freedom of his slaves.
But she doesn't. She just folds in on herself, collapses, almost, as if she knew all along that this was going to happen, and that all good things must come to an end. And he is torn between taking his egg and drilling it at her, at that vulnerable spot in the hollow of her neck that makes her squirm when he kisses it, just to tell her I'm so over you; he can't decide whether to do that or to flee, because Rachel without vivacity is like life without daisies. It just doesn't work like that. In his own mean, little selfish way, he wants her to fight, lash out, punch him like he deserves, but he knows that she won't.
She used to win all the arguments they ever had. Not because of her superior knowledge, mind you (he is every bit as good as her, and better), but because he found out early on that she can't stand losing. And not in the way that he can't stand it. If she loses where she knows she could have won, it takes her down completely; devastates her worse than a hurricane on all those million dollar homes in Florida that he will someday be retired in. So he let her win, because the sad, quiet little way she sulked around afterwards was enough to kill him with the guilt.
Guilt is emotion. He can't afford emotion, and hardens his heart against it and those pleading, injured animal eyes that she flashes up at him as he carefully cracks the egg so that it trickles down her immaculate face. She needs to fight back, take that wounded pride and sharpen it to daggers to plunge into his waiting heart. He wants her to do that so badly, because if she does it, then he'll at least be justified. He'll be the sacrifice for the team, the lamb to slaughter, and all that excellent stuff. He needs this vision of Moses versus Pharaoh to work, because his finely attuned sense of the dramatic gives him this awful, burning desire to see her break out of that prim little shell and become a snarling beast at the sight of him. At the very least, it'll break her concentration at Regionals. So when she simply stands there, allowing the jeers of his crude companions to jab at her heart - which is clearly pinned on her sleeve, it's right there underneath the egg yolk - he feels a twinge of annoyance. She's screwing up his metaphors. He's Moses, remember? This is him, cleaning her away out of his life, sweeping her up by the sea of time and out to oblivion as he regains his robot self.
(he forgot that both Jesus and Moses were Jewish.)
