Maxine sucks deep. "Adele was an angel sent from Heaven. Too good for this world. We're all going to miss her so much..." But inside, oh. (...heard they almost cut off her head I don't see any blood I should have gotten here sooner maybe I should have brought my red velvet cake instead...) Sookie stands, done with it, done with the world of ugliness, with the contrast between the word and the deed and the thought behind the deed. Because we accustom ourselves to the failings of others fairly early, but this isn't a game, it's not a conversation: we're talking about a soul and thinking about a body. Maxine loved the soul; she wants to see the blood. As fucking hot as he is, I would almost like Hoyt to be the killer, just to embarrass Maxine. Give her a steaming cup of real drama and watch her fold. It's not as easy to martyr yourself when it's your own.
Sookie bumps into Arlene, looking a fright. She babbles at length, in tears, mascara running dramatically down her face while Sookie stares: it's impressive, how intense her breakdown has been. Especially knowing she's just another Maxine. Another person who blames her, thinks she's a fangbanger, thinks she called down God's wrath as easy as lightning. Who mourns that it was Adele got struck. "Now, if you need help with ..." Sookie nods with a friendly smile, she's heard it from everyone else in Bon Temps, if you need help with anything, blah blah... then she gets confused, as Arlene keeps talking. "Help with moving, or anything at all..." Sookie babbles: she isn't moving, who's moving? Not Sookie. Sookie's not leaving. This is all the Gran she has left; it's all the world she has left. Even vampires get coffins, when the world gets too big. It smells like her; the dishes are where she likes them.
All talk is advertising. Sookie knows it, because she sees both inside and outside at once, but spend a day in silence and you'll see what I mean: the way the words reverberate inside, showing you your propaganda: not what you really are, but who you want to be. There are those who speak of grieving and wish to be seen grieving, and those who grieve where words don't go. There are those who speak of loving and wish to be seen loving, and those who love where words don't go. You talk about hurting when you're not hurting; you stay silent when you are. You don't speak of grieving when you're grieving, any more than you talk dirty when you're coming. The wake, the funeral, they're for the living to be alone together because we can't share this. As much as I love you, there are sparks we can't truly share, locked in these bodies as we are. That's the animal truth of the reverse cowgirl: We only truly feel things in wordlessness, because we are alone.