The narrator’s description of Reva’s mother’s paintings as “decent amateur watercolors” is cold and lacking in empathy. Even if the paintings are only mediocre, it wouldn’t require much of the narrator to swallow her pride and aesthetic sensibilities and praise the paintings, as Reva clearly wants—needs—her to do. Yet she offers this mean, backhanded compliment instead. Even worse, she demands that Reva go upstairs to find something of her mother’s for the narrator to wear, even though Reva has made it clear that her grief is too fresh to do this. Despite the narrator’s earlier expression of gratitude to Reva for her support back in college, she doesn’t seem willing to reciprocate that support meaningfully. In this way, she continues to allow her depressed, nihilistic attitude dictate her actions and degrade what few human connections she has left.