Sometimes it’s more about the little thrill of brushing off imaginary lint than true fastidiousness. Impossible like Lestat is impossible, like how he asks the impossible.

“And I would do the same for you, mon cher,” Louis says with difficulty.

But he didn’t. He wrapped Lestat in a rug and threw him out with the trash. He could not stand to truly send Lestat from this world. Louis looks guiltily down and smooths an imaginary crease from Lestat’s lapel, the back of his knuckles following the contour of his chest. So much for wearing only bitterness. Louis does not think he could let Lestat go except perhaps by removing himself from the equation.

So there it is. Louis cannot let Lestat go. This spells some sort of doom or damnation, he’s sure.