The women in Harley's life have a funny way of being constantly ephemeral. A lover pro tempore has become an unfortunate gimmick she's saddled with. She feels more like a derivative magician pulling some infinite binding of scarves out of a hat than a beloved. It would be nothing more than gratuitous pantomime to be content with such a conscious assessment of her relationships; in fact, Harley's rather embittered despite her equal blame in on-and-off flirtations.

It feels like proper mourning for how you oscillate through her life like some trapeze act. Just like Ivy, just like Selina— Harley's loyalty is the fixed point with which the pendulum swings. What did you know? You just forfeit the dearest pal you ever had! Harley figures you love to ditch her as much as you love to Goldilocks-and-the-Three-Bears right into her life; she was always a matter of when things were "just right" for you.

The days after you leave, Harley dreams up vibrant, flashy revues that depict the aftermath of your little trysts. She envisions herself as the leading lady of the Follies rather than some meager hoofer down in vaudeville. Harley imagines elaborate sketches and dances that depict how heartbroken you must be, how lonely and haunted by regret you must be. What kinda partner just up and leaves like that, especially when the two of you got those matching tattoos! Ain't that some kinda sign of devotion? After all, she has your face tattooed on her with the utmost compliments to your visage— and you have one of her!

"You've got a lotta makin' up t'do," Harley huffs, fumbling with her keys as she attempts to unlock her apartment. It's not exactly easy when she's made so much merry with you throughout Gotham's most notorious dive bars, especially with her back pressed to the door, like she's trying to keep her eyes on you lest you vanish into thin air. All those resentful musical numbers in her head fade. Harley can't decide if she wants the instant gratification or if she wants to stick to her guns. "Y'know?"