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Something Happened :: Хеллер Джозеф
Страница: 370 из 398(Some nights I can sleep and she can't: it registers upon me that she is leaving the bed repeatedly in some state of agitation, and I doze off again moreblissfully as a result of this knowledge.) I am in a turmoil of tragic insomnia, and she is lying inches away from me in a mellow stupor of oblivious tranquillity. How dare she be so insensitive to my wretchedness and distress, especially when it's all probably her fault. And I want to shake her awake roughly.
"Get up, you, dammit you! Why should you be able to sleep when I can't? And it's all your fault."
She wouldn't know what I was talking about and might think I'd gone mad.
"Do you love me?" she might ask.
She doesn't ask it anymore. She knows we are in a struggle also and has too much pride to fly a white flag of ignominious defeat. (I'm glad she doesn't. I would have to make concessions. I wish it were over.)
I think I know when it will end, how I will be able to disengage us from this stalemate and resolve the conflict in a way rewarding to both: on her deathbed.
"Don't die," I can say then. "I love you."
I will have my honor. She will be appeased. I will be a hundred and eight years old. She will be a few years younger. I will have to start doing my own shopping in supermarkets and groceries to make certain there is coffee and juice in the house for me. I will have to sell the house and move to an apartment. (And then I will miss her.)
She hasn't asked in years. Age and self-respect, I think, have stilled the question every time she wanted to ask:
"Do you still love me?"
It is in her mind, though. I can see it as a verbal sculpture. She fishes, hints. I decline to oblige. Or perhaps she believes I don't love her any longer and fears that if she were to ask:
"Do you love me?" I would answer: "No."
And then we would have to do something. (And wouldn't know what.)
I'm glad she doesn't, although I frequently feel her on the brink. It would be demeaning to have to deal with. I don't want to have fights with her about this. I don't know how I would answer now if she were to ask:
"Do you love me?"
Unresponsively, facetiously, evasively. I would not want to lie and I would not want to tell the truth (no matter how I felt). If she were to ask while we were savaging each other in sex, the answer would be easy.
"Turn over, and I'll show you."
But that would not be what she wanted, and both of us would know. And I am so pleased she doesn't ask, feel so grateful and deeply indebted to her at times, that I want to throw wide my arms in relief and proclaim:
"I love you!"
And after I made that mistake, I might never be able to get my divorce.
"Get up, you, dammit you! Why should you be able to sleep when I can't? And it's all your fault."
She wouldn't know what I was talking about and might think I'd gone mad.
"Do you love me?" she might ask.
She doesn't ask it anymore. She knows we are in a struggle also and has too much pride to fly a white flag of ignominious defeat. (I'm glad she doesn't. I would have to make concessions. I wish it were over.)
I think I know when it will end, how I will be able to disengage us from this stalemate and resolve the conflict in a way rewarding to both: on her deathbed.
"Don't die," I can say then. "I love you."
I will have my honor. She will be appeased. I will be a hundred and eight years old. She will be a few years younger. I will have to start doing my own shopping in supermarkets and groceries to make certain there is coffee and juice in the house for me. I will have to sell the house and move to an apartment. (And then I will miss her.)
She hasn't asked in years. Age and self-respect, I think, have stilled the question every time she wanted to ask:
"Do you still love me?"
It is in her mind, though. I can see it as a verbal sculpture. She fishes, hints. I decline to oblige. Or perhaps she believes I don't love her any longer and fears that if she were to ask:
"Do you love me?" I would answer: "No."
And then we would have to do something. (And wouldn't know what.)
I'm glad she doesn't, although I frequently feel her on the brink. It would be demeaning to have to deal with. I don't want to have fights with her about this. I don't know how I would answer now if she were to ask:
"Do you love me?"
Unresponsively, facetiously, evasively. I would not want to lie and I would not want to tell the truth (no matter how I felt). If she were to ask while we were savaging each other in sex, the answer would be easy.
"Turn over, and I'll show you."
But that would not be what she wanted, and both of us would know. And I am so pleased she doesn't ask, feel so grateful and deeply indebted to her at times, that I want to throw wide my arms in relief and proclaim:
"I love you!"
And after I made that mistake, I might never be able to get my divorce.