"Don't you think you're being a little excessive, Doctor?"
Having eaten and drunk her fill, Natasha returned to the fishing spot and stared at Schiller, the dissatisfaction in her tone nearly overflowing.
"How did that dish taste?" Schiller seemed to be in another dimension. He went on talking to himself. "It hadn't proofed long enough, so it wasn't crispy enough. The flames also didn't have the even temperature of an oven. I don't think it turned out very well, but I believe you could give me a chance to correct that impression. What do you say, ma'am?"
Natasha took a deep breath and made another resolution not to speak to Schiller. The moment that resolve rose within her, she heard Schiller say, "You're angry not because I unusually expressed an interest in you, but because I used you as a shield. Because the attentions I paid you weren't genuine."
Natasha froze for a moment. She wanted to refute him, but found herself unable to speak. If she said she wasn't angry about that, wouldn't she be admitting that she believed Schiller's attentions were genuine? Then her refusal to respond would seem terribly rude, like one of those scumbags who neither accepted nor rejected someone.
But if she said that was why she was angry, something still felt wrong. Why should she compare herself to the fish Schiller was trying to catch? Was she supposed to compare who had truly won his heart and who was merely a substitute?
Natasha tried her best to draw the cold air into her lungs, hoping the temperature and scent of home would clear her head a little. Before they reached the ice hole from that morning, Natasha finally spoke.
"I'm acting entirely out of professional responsibility. I need to make sure you won't physically