[ She grabs his hand, when he raises it— an instinct, one she immediately regrets. They don't hold hands anymore. Thoughts run through her mind, like spinning spools, winding her up. The situation is much more suspicious, now that he's here. She has to suspect the Russians. It makes her think of drills, in plywood American towns, learning to flatten out her accent. But this is something else, though she isn't sure why she thinks that. ]
I'm Natasha.
[ She lets go of his arm.]
No one else calls you James, you know. [ She's sure of that. And sure that he doesn't know. ]
no subject
I'm Natasha.
[ She lets go of his arm.]
No one else calls you James, you know. [ She's sure of that. And sure that he doesn't know. ]