It had occurred to him (more than once) that, in the grand scheme of things big and small and medium sized, they weren't that special. Not at all.
Edward wasn't sure that she had thought of it, not yet anyway. She was still busy absorbing things, like a sponge left in a large sink of dishwater (He had said this to her once, but he suspected the intended point did not get across when she narrowed her eyes and asked him if he was comparing her to a dirty sponge) and maybe sheliked thinking they were special. There was the small chance that she looked at the big universal plan for mice and men (etc, etc…) enjoyed the fact that they may be, quite literally, one in a million.
But he thought about it quite a lot, and decided that no- not a million. A million was far too vast a number to even consider. It made it seem like all the odds were stacked against them (and yes, he admits that most of them are) one hundred thousand, perhaps. Or smaller, if he was really trying to stretch it to the limit, but he was certain that it had happened before.
Well, maybe not certain in the exact meaning of the word. Positive, maybe. Sure. Pretty sure.
Yes, he was pretty sure that somewhere, sometime, this had occurred in some way, shape, or form.
And other than the almost uncontrollable urge to drink her blood, Edward thought that it was going well all things considered (see above sentence) he hadn't killed her yet, at least. And he was pretty sure he knew more about her than she knew about herself.
That may be the key to their success, the fact that he was more hyper aware of Bella's habits, compulsions and nuances than probably even she was- which may be due to the fact that when he wasn't translating the Star Spangled Banner into Pig Latin (If he had been speaking this, it would be in a very sarcastic tone) he was going out of his way to find out everything about her he could.
Her favorite food was chocolate cake, she had a Simon and Garfunkel album stashed under her bed, and when she thought no one was looking she would silently speak to herself, mouth forming around the words like a prayer.
When she cried, her face looked like a sheet of glass that had just shattered against concrete; she had countless Martha Stewart episodes Tivo-ed at Angela's house (he had pointed this out to her once, but she claimed that it had happened subconsciously) and a whole host of other things that were just a little bit (he loathed to say crazy)colourful. She was a colourful girl; only, she was just as much aware of that as the fact that she had watched the Martha Stewart special on doilies seven times.
After a good long time thinking about it, Edward decided that it was probably best he wasn't able to read her mind anyway. And it wasn't because he wanted to protect her privacy, or that some things were better left a mystery (Edward was nothing if not a cheater) it was because the more he mulled, the more it dawned on him that her mind must be a grim, grim place. A place full of doilies and cake and one-in-a million statistics that were a little off, but not quite out of the ballpark- kind of like the junk drawer from hell that nobody has the courage to open.
But the one thing he could do, Edward thought slightly resentfully as he sat in front of the TV and turned on the Tivo-ed Martha Stewart episode (dinner party etiquette) is relate to her.
Or possibly die trying.