She comes without warning, waits on the threshold and doesn't waver. Her sculptor's hands are tight—one grasping the strap of her purse, the other clenched at her side. There is something hard in her expression now, unflinching. Hidden. Determined. It would have been easier if they were strangers.
Harvey met Gilda in college. She'd been quiet then too, a little hesitant about meeting new people. But he loved her work, and through that they slowly got around to other conversations. He learned that Gilda had been raised a good girl. She took great relish in driving ten miles over the speed limit, eating candy before dinner, and inventing new ways to use swear words. She liked opera and metal and something in between, but country eluded her. She could talk mythology for hours. "Apollo" slipped off her tongue almost by accident, a nickname she wasn't sure she could give, and he'd wanted to kiss her then. Ultimately she beat him to it, standing two steps above him on the way to her dorm so he didn't have to bend over.
She's wearing an overlarge sweater now, brown hair tied back, wedged boots making their height difference slightly less conspicuous. He's still in pajama pants and a clashing t-shirt, the hair he has left sticking up at odd angles. Sometimes this happens, and he doesn't get out of bed until well past noon. Sometimes the world doesn't need him before then.
Gonna have to change that habit.
Harvey wonders if he should say something, do anything. Gilda is looking at him, seeing all of him and it's clear she has expectations but language has turned traitor to lodge halfway down his throat. His lips part, he thinks he'll say her name or "I'm sorry" or even "hi" but no. Harvey Dent can't manage a word, much less a speech.
"Aren't you going to let me in?" she asks quietly, and he's retreating almost instinctively as she moves forward. They haven't been this close in years.
She smells like clay and and smoke and a salty-sweet perfume he can't identify.
Gilda shuts the door for him.