There’s a certain kind of warmth within her when Usnavi comes back to stand with her, even if all he does is shuffle around with his papers as they speak. She tries to scoot around him and out of his way, the space small but enough for them to be comfortably around each other. “I don’t think he’s ever been taught to be quiet. He’s always been a little outspoken, it doesn’t matter what time it is, he’ll voice his opinion whether you’re listening or not.” She sighs, she’s been through a lot of that, trying not to listen or pay any mind to Alexander’s opinionated speeches. Most of the time it’s easy enough to smile and nod, whether she knew or not, but recently it’d been getting harder and harder to turn a blind eye to his words. “I… I’m not upset that you’re not mad, maybe just curious. Why aren’t you mad about this?” She asks him this, her hand perched carefully on the counter, outstretched towards him like an invitation. It’s still the early morning, quiet and calm after the storm that is their friend running through them like a hurricane, and she opens herself up to ground them.
“I’m upset with him for digging to try and find problems in this,” she gestures between them, “Though he has no right to try and judge, nor does he have any definite say in what I do with my life and my time. But what do you think about all of this?”
He holds to his rolled up stack of papers, movements going still as she asks why he isn’t mad; should he be, he wonders, honestly unsure of where he should stand in all of this. It isn’t always in his nature to be accusatory or confrontational ( unless someone tells him he should --- then it’s a matter of reputation over realization ), but what did Alex say that was so bad, so worthy of a fight? From what Usnavi has heard --- other than Sonny presumably over-exaggerating the truth --- was that the kid didn’t think he and Eliza were a good fit. Even a few moments ago, standing outside his bodega, the man brought the subject up ( I just want to ensure she’s being taken care of to the level she deserves, he had said, ), and was that such a wrong thought? Well, Usnavi would say so, but he would also defend that it isn’t his place to change that thought. He’s not here to change the world; he’s here to run his store, then retire off to a sunny beach somewhere sippin’ on a rum and coke with his toes in the sand. That’s it.
He places the papers back onto the counter; nervous energy, movements tense and uncertain. Expression, too, reads of this: unsure of where he should stand, confused as to what he should say next.
“I’m thinkin’ it’s not his place,” he says, trying, yet failing, to sound confident in his words. Still, he looks down to the counter, concerned he’s chosen the wrong path in the situation; social cues and interpretations never were his strong suit. “People are always gonna have stances on stuff like this, pero no podemos cambiar eso --- we can’t change that, sí?” he looks to her, hoping she agrees, hoping his defense isn’t as flimsy as his mind is making it out to be. Nervous, he continues despite himself. “I’m not gettin’ involved in all that, unless you want me to.”
