Fanny, I think she's saying, doesn't have time for that shit anymore, because it doesn't help anybody, and a lot of the time it just hurts you: People waste so much time protecting themselves instead of saving themselves, or not being honest because of how they'll feel like it makes them look. So somebody else has to burn the city down, and that person is going to be the one who's brave enough she doesn't care if she's the Good Guy: Only that her people stop hurting themselves. Stop sinning.
Fanny: "Do you love him?"
Michelle, immediately: "He knows that I don't."
Fanny: "Ah. He thinks love will come."
Michelle: "It could. He's a terrific guy."
Fanny: "And what about you, are you a terrific girl?"
Michelle: "I'm super handy around the house."
That earns Fanny's first real smile.
Fanny: "That might be better than love, actually."
Michelle: "I didn't plan any of this, you know, he just caught me at a really bad time."
"My career is pointless. My apartment is a nightmare. I'm sick of partying. I'm sick of Vegas. I'm sick of me, actually. I don't know what I'm doing, or where I'm going, and he's just ... so kind. I've never had someone so kind in my life. I think I could fall in love with him. I'd sure like myself a lot more if I did."
Fanny nods, to herself. Maybe too subtle for Michelle to even see it, but it's there. It's that word "kind," I think. That word can open a lot of doors. We don't say it a lot, or throw it around; in some ways I think that's best.
Fanny: "Well. I love my son. I want him to be happy. So let's see if you and I can dance together."
She pulls up Jim Croce on the jukebox, as a final warning -- you don't tug on Superman's cape, and you don't fuck with Godzilla -- and they dance. And again: It's cute, it's fine. It's dancing. It's a shared language. This is the only way this first story could end.
Fanny, kindly: "God, you're terrible."
Michelle: "Well you made me be the guy!"
Fanny: "Ugh, just follow me."