The Book Of Judas
Jude stares and watches Steve communing with the Almighty. And he comes out, his face changed, shocked. He can't meet her eyes. And across the table, in infinite sadness, she chokes it out: "I'm right?" He stares at her. "The Third Testament. The family business closes down. No more Heaven, no more Hell. Knew it all along." We always do. It's a good line. He looks down at the pasta. "Well then."
And it cracks. Steve's bravery falls, and his face is human, and he is tiny, and he speaks to the child in Jude, and in you, immediate sympathy for this last of all choices. "Don't want to." She begs him not to go there. "Wanna stay." She nods. "I know." "...With you!" he says. Her heart breaks: "We never stood a chance, did we?" He blames himself: "Should've asked you out years ago. My fault." But she takes responsibility for her part: "Well, I should have asked you." And why didn't she? What was she waiting for? Her sad smile on it: "I was...hoping. For better." Such sadness, such guilt. And isn't that the key to Jude? God, Steve...the belief that better can come is a really good way to fuck things up for yourself. Not that you should give that up. It's hard. Steve gets it. He smiles. It hurts. It's over now. That's the thing she needed to tell him, the answer that solves the equation. Ask Fiona: all you ever wanted was the answer to the question. "Why am I not loved?" And if there's anyone cruel, or broken, or strong enough to tell you, it solves the equation. It's over now. He takes up a spoon.