Oh, those tight places we sometimes are maneuvered into — or maneuver ourselves into. She was thinking out loud.
So which is it? he asked. Were you pushed there, or did your own machinations move you ever deeper into the cusp.
Cusp? she said. Why a cusp, why not a corner, or even tight spot as I called it in the first place?
Because cusp sounds more poetic, and thus more dramatic, he insisted, his words coming faster all the time, so that even if you got there out of your own foolish maneuvering, it sounds tragic that you wound up there. This garners empathy.
Alright, evil genius, she grinned, enough of your urging me to prevaricate. If I’ve made my bed, I’ll lie in it. She feinted a faint onto the sofa.
The sofa will do, he replied, and replicated her action exactly.