"I don't think they do, really," Eduardo says, though it isn't a comment he expects to get much notice, nothing particularly relevant. He doesn't care. The little explanations like this, they have to be given at some point, and it's easy to rattle off facts — easier than thinking about their past, though his ability to keep that from his mind comes and goes in short little bursts, how okay he is changing from second to second. This is good to start with, the way Mark smiles at the burgers' arrival, eliciting the same reaction from him in turn (though his has nothing to do with the food itself). "You can only get things like this here, most of the rest of the time, they'll use something else instead. There's a lot of boar. You get used to it."
He's only just barely started to, but that's true of how he feels about the whole island and its ability to turn things upside down, the food only a tiny, tiny part of that. It would be worse if everyone had to fend for themselves; instead, the people they have to take care of things like that, however insane it is that so many are willing to do so much for no compensation, make it feel a little more normal. Nothing about it is or ever will be, of course, but he supposes it's the illusion of it that matters, proper meals served in a kitchen rather than the alternatives presented in most stranded-on-a-desert-island stereotypes.
The same could probably go for him and Mark, for that matter, a thought that has him on the verge of getting more thoughtful again. Even with each other, they can pass themselves off as normal, the same two people who met at an AEPi party, when really, they're anything but, and may or may not ever be again, a thought which Eduardo is still far too conflicted on for his own good, wanting Mark and his friendship, trying to remind himself that he shouldn't let things become as they were. Either way, though — he can't run with one or the other right now, has to keep trying to walk this fragile line — it lets him circle back to what they were saying before the food arrived, reluctance evident in his expression for all of a moment before he speaks again.
"There are still a few exceptions, though, anyway," he notes, as casually as he can, not wanting to make too big a deal out of the subject. "I mean, MySpace was MySpace, but you… I've met people from as late as 2010, and Facebook's only gotten bigger." What that means, of course, what Eduardo is painfully aware of but refuses to say outright, is that Mark was right. It's another conversation — several of them, really, the points of which have all blended together in his head — that he remembers in far more detail than he'd care to. We don't know what it is yet, we don't know what it will be, the way fashion is never finished: it's almost sickening now, in retrospect. Mark was right and he was wrong, and it's that stubbornness of his own that likely contributed to his removal from the company, though he wouldn't change what he did and can't blame himself, not really, for that. He was brought on as CFO and never did anything but the job he was supposed to. It isn't fair and there's nothing he could have done differently, but when it came to the site itself, Mark was the one who knew. Of course he was. Eduardo shrugs. "You know, for what that's worth."
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Date: 2011-05-21 02:24 am (UTC)He's only just barely started to, but that's true of how he feels about the whole island and its ability to turn things upside down, the food only a tiny, tiny part of that. It would be worse if everyone had to fend for themselves; instead, the people they have to take care of things like that, however insane it is that so many are willing to do so much for no compensation, make it feel a little more normal. Nothing about it is or ever will be, of course, but he supposes it's the illusion of it that matters, proper meals served in a kitchen rather than the alternatives presented in most stranded-on-a-desert-island stereotypes.
The same could probably go for him and Mark, for that matter, a thought that has him on the verge of getting more thoughtful again. Even with each other, they can pass themselves off as normal, the same two people who met at an AEPi party, when really, they're anything but, and may or may not ever be again, a thought which Eduardo is still far too conflicted on for his own good, wanting Mark and his friendship, trying to remind himself that he shouldn't let things become as they were. Either way, though — he can't run with one or the other right now, has to keep trying to walk this fragile line — it lets him circle back to what they were saying before the food arrived, reluctance evident in his expression for all of a moment before he speaks again.
"There are still a few exceptions, though, anyway," he notes, as casually as he can, not wanting to make too big a deal out of the subject. "I mean, MySpace was MySpace, but you… I've met people from as late as 2010, and Facebook's only gotten bigger." What that means, of course, what Eduardo is painfully aware of but refuses to say outright, is that Mark was right. It's another conversation — several of them, really, the points of which have all blended together in his head — that he remembers in far more detail than he'd care to. We don't know what it is yet, we don't know what it will be, the way fashion is never finished: it's almost sickening now, in retrospect. Mark was right and he was wrong, and it's that stubbornness of his own that likely contributed to his removal from the company, though he wouldn't change what he did and can't blame himself, not really, for that. He was brought on as CFO and never did anything but the job he was supposed to. It isn't fair and there's nothing he could have done differently, but when it came to the site itself, Mark was the one who knew. Of course he was. Eduardo shrugs. "You know, for what that's worth."