3. Dismiss
He paces in front of the window, glaring out at Fleet Street as he mechanically flicks a razor open and closed. No sound can be heard save for the musical creaking of the floorboards beneath him. The silence is bliss.
Then the door is pushed open, and he hears the cheery, "Thought you might be hungry, love, so I've brought you some soup…"
He ignores her as he pauses his pacing, contenting himself with sneering at the street below. Mrs. Lovett hums quietly under her breath as she collects his untouched breakfast. He's so caught up in thoughts of the judge, of Lucy, that he doesn't hear her speaking until she's standing right behind him with a hand resting on his shoulder. He freezes at the contact.
"Love? I said is there anythin' else ya want?"
Her singsong voice is mocking his wallowing ruminations. The feel of her fingers warming his cold skin is wrong. She's mocking Lucy, pretending to be concerned, trying to play the part of the wife she'll never be.
"Out," he manages.
"Mr. T…?" She's confused, but doesn't step away.
"Out!" he roars, and she flinches as though burned, then sighs dejectedly as she backs slowly away.
If he cared to turn around, he'd see the hurt in her eyes.
But he doesn't.