Easier Said Than Done
When you ask someone what they like least about Leslie, there's a number of things they could possibly say. Maybe it's her pushiness, her inability to take a hint even when something is spelled out to her, the works.
Maybe that's why her break-up with Ben is so hard to navigate because all of the things she feels like she should do— be civil with him, spend time with him, even be friends— are the opposite of what he wants.
He tells her she's being selfish for not giving him what he wants, but that's not it at all. She wants to, more than anything, but this is how she's been her whole life and she doesn't know if she can change that.
Betraying everything she's ever known isn't as easy as one may think.
This is why she's confused by his outburst at her at the Model UN tournament because this time, it seemed like what he wanted finally lined up with what she was able to give. He made a few passive-aggressive comments when she abandoned him for campaign work, but she figured he, of all people, would understand that that isn't something she can control.
But then he blew up, called her selfish, obtuse. And everything in her wanted to fight, so she did. She's fully willing to admit she's wrong when she is, but the problem is, she never thinks she's wrong. And the worst part is that she still feels right about this. He can't change his mind willy-nilly and expect her to anticipate his emotions at any given moment.
April and Andy had dragged them into this room together, but now, as they sit there in silence, she finds herself stuck in a contradiction where she knows what she wants to say and doesn't at the same time.
She opens her mouth and shuts it again, an image of a fish mimicking her movements entering her mind. She shakes her head at the thought and it miraculously disappears.
"Here's the thing," she finally says. Ben turns to her, his eyes curious and sad, and god, she knows that look all too well.
"What?" He asks when she doesn't say anything.
"I don't know." Leslie leans forward, her head dropping into her hands as she fights the tears that threaten to spill over. "I— you told me you didn't want to be friends. I tried to respect that, I really did. But then you seemed to change your mind today and I was so glad. Then it turns out you didn't. You blew up at me for things I can't control, called me obtuse because I wanted to be friends, but you seemed to be on board with that until then. It's not fair to change your mind every ten seconds and then expect me to pick up the pieces when I don't give you what you want."
"What do you want me to say, Leslie? That I'm sorry? That I'm not? That pretending nothing happened isn't killing me?" He asked, his eyes brown and wide and somber. Leslie turns away, knowing she needs to stop looking.
"You want to avoid me, but that isn't realistic. You're my boss."
"What do you propose, then?"
Leslie thinks for a few moments, an idea entering her head and causing her eyes to light up.
"Well, I propose a treaty that states that we have a fun conversation once a day, at work, for five minutes."
"I'll take it to the Peruvian senate, or whatever."
"Please do that."
"I'll try, I'll see what they say."
So it's not the best solution, but it suits them both fine. Leslie can talk to him, and he can avoid her for the remaining 23 hours and 55 minutes of each day.
However, this whole five-minute thing feels easier said than done.
Well, it's worth a shot.