He is confused, at how her demeanor seems to have changed. She was so adamant, at the river, refusing to believe him, and now her features are fixed with the grace of someone simply going along with things, too polite to point out his mistake.
(Oh my love, you survived, she had said, so mistaken, yet he has replayed those words many times. He so badly wants to be someone’s love.)
“You thought I was someone you knew,” he says, prodding, reminding. He doesn’t know why he’s poking this wound. He didn’t know her then and he doesn’t know her now. So why does he want so badly for her to recognize him?
(Why does he almost know her name?)
She says her name then - Agetta - and it hits him like a punch. He doesn’t know why the name means anything, but his heart speeds up.
“Agetta,” he repeats, and the word is so easy on the tongue, so luxurious, “I’m Garbage.”
His own pathetic name, spilled alongside hers. Why couldn’t he have forgotten his own name, chosen something poetic, something noble, instead?
“At the river,” he says, “I think I was rude to you. I wanted to apologize. It was a very confusing time.”
And you were so sure, he wants to add, so sure that I was someone who mattered. But he doesn’t. He has salted this wound enough, dredging their last meeting like this.
@Agetta