"The fact that I tolerated you a little more easily before being publicly embarrassed seems like shaky grounds to make that kind of assumption." The doubtful, sarcastic bite of her words is softened by a faint uncertainty in her eyes. Or maybe it's his sanity she's questioning.

"If you'd worn it, wouldn't you know?" It's an evasion, though she doesn't think it'd be a lie (not precisely, at least,) to tell him no. She can't help but separate them; one from a divergent past, the other a destined parting. "Besides, what might happen at home has as little bearing on what happens here, as what happens here affects what will happen in the real world. It wouldn't make any difference, now, if we were married with three kids two years down the road, or if I were dead, or if we never spoke again."

There's an unspoken accusation laced through the words; not venemous, but weary. Wounded.