[ The most amicable breakup ever. The palm over hers is considerably larger, covering most of her hands, and it's as comforting as it is depressing. Thirty years from now these nice hands will probably be worm food....

Marcille sniffs hard. She lets go of one hand and wipes her nose with her napkin, keeping her eyes closed. ]

So what? So I can live for eight hundred, nine hundred years? Maybe even more than that? Just to watch everyone else go on without me?