“I believe Dr. Friskin could help you figure out your love-hate relationship with Lex Luthor.”
She loves to hate him? She hates that he loves her? In his own way.
“Look, lady, like I told you the first two times you called. We cannot give out personal information about our guests,” the man snapped at her.
Wait, did Lex just have a bunch of numbers set up and outsourced it to a call center in Bangalore?
“Are you saying that someone else called you impersonating me?” Lois asked, a chill of foreboding trickled down her back, followed by a red-hot streak of anger.
Oh. Right. On the second read this makes so much more sense. The first two calls were from the Dirt Digger. My bad.
She sat up, because she realized suddenly that he looked as if he were about to deliver bad news. “Oh, god, no. Please, no. Please,” she murmured. “My mother?”
?
“Now, now, Lois,” Robertson said, his soothing tone edged with panic. “It’s not the end of the world.”
Lois raised her gaze and looked at him with bafflement. Who says that? Her mother was dead.
Lois need never know Superman was there, watching and dying at her willing surrender to his enemy.
So, Lois repeatedly plunging a steak knife into Lex’s belly and loins would be defined as ‘willing’?
Pinching together his lips, Lex lifted up the blotter on his desk and pulled out the sliver of paper he had found between the folds of his cookie the night he and Lois had eaten take-out at her apartment.
What did it mean? Did it signify anything?
Michael
