Is that why—
And this, my friends, is when the mistake is made. Darcy's cold expresso, this line of thought. A mistake. Invoking Elizabeth. Even as "inferior." As easy. As a low-pressure possibility.
Because now, she is a possibility.
She could be here. Sipping tea at Darcy's table, after dessert. He'd be sending emails. She'd be, who knows, reading on her tablet, whatever sociology students are supposed to read.
Elizabeth. In his bed, naked. Down and down he goes, and she's not laughing now.
It cannot last, of course. It will be, not a one-night stand, no, Elizabeth is worth more than that. But she cannot be… The one who stays. The one that sticks.
"The one" cannot be a sociology student. Cannot have a mother who shrieks. Cannot…
Yes, a…dalliance. Short. Meaningless.
And suddenly, he hates himself.
Darcy hates himself, and it aches, because he took something beautiful and made it dirty. He took something precious, this idea, this illusion, stained it, and rolled it in vile reality.
This, this dream of her, it was lovely, and Darcy has to stop this, stop this now, before he takes the dream and rips it open, before he makes it ugly, profane, so Darcy finishes his espresso quickly, he rises and pays and leaves, and he says goodbye, goodbye to her, goodbye to this…
… and this time it's over, really over, for good.
- XX -
END OF ACT ONE!
(Spoiler: it's not over.)