Death is always too much. One or one hundred, it is always too much. [She pauses and takes her own drink in hand, quickly pouring it down her throat.] That is what this is, my love....[She pokes his chest and then her own.] Us. No one else has to know if it gets to you. No one knows if it gets to me. You do. I tell you. My secrets die here. [She places her hand over his heart.] The rest of the world can think me a monster. A murdered. Cold. Uncaring. When it is too much? When I cannot take seeing another pair of dead eyes in my mind? I come home to you, curl up in our bed, and find my solace. I can be that for you if you will trust me with your heart, Nathan.