[It occurs to Barrow that he might actually prefer to be back on that Venatori rack, getting all his joints re-fucked and his mind magicked to the Void and back, than to be here sharing his personal romantic failures with a man who visibly hates him. Maybe this is punishment for some cosmic sin that he hadn't even factored in, like cracking an egg on his sister's head when they were children, or for taking Fitcher to a restaurant he was confident was authentic Antivan and having to watch the light in her eyes die as he bumbled his way through a plate of perfectly serviceable spagetty, or however you call it--]

I may have perceived interest that wasn't there.

[One hand is curled awkwardly over his mouth, his posture having slouched somewhat since this leg of the conversation began.]