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be sleekit fuckers as well I'll take the pish out of them as I see fit.' And I just wanted to get up and throw my arms
round you and tell you I loved you, but couldn't because I'd had too much drink and my legs wouldn't work. Did I ever
tell you I was proud of you then? Because you know how I am, they could serve me a fried dictionary in a restaurant
and I'd feel bad about complaining.
During my contemplations I've thought about that restaurant quite a lot, and my own reactions to it. I had always
thought I didn't complain myself because, well, because I was such a laidback person it didn't matter much, that any
problem would just wash over me. I've gone through life like that, thinking of myself as laid-back, thinking I was the
archetypal tranquil port in the midst of a stormy ocean. It is only since I've been here that I've come to realize that I'm
not like that at all, that in reality I am just one big ball of emotions that I've been afraid to unleash, not even to you. It
has been a revelation, this self-examination. Not quite on a par with Saul on the road to Damascus, perhaps, but pretty
damn important to me, and, hopefully, to you. Because I never treated you the way you deserved. Of course I told you
that I loved you, but it was a flippant kind of love, I might as well have been saying good morning or good night.
Instead of lavishing love upon you, I took you for granted; I realize now that having achieved the state of marriage, I
thought I had done everything expected of me, that I could go about concentrating on myself and my career; one half
of me with my head stuck in the clouds dreaming of literary greatness, the other half with my journalism and my
drinking, which is one and the same really; and as you log know, there are no third halves in life, which meant that
you were excluded. I'm sorry. I was wrong.
Some of it was your fault, of course. Neither of us are perfect. But even though we are chalk and cheese, and
always will be, I believe with all my heart that we are perfect for each other. Look back to our good days, then when
next you laugh with Tony, presuming that you do, is it the same, or is there something missing, and is that something
me?
I know you always wanted children. Although we did all the practical work, nothing ever arrived. We took the
precautions, mostly, but you always had that little hope that from those nights when we forgot or you were off the pill
for whatever reason you might get pregnant; I could always tell, even if you never said it. I don't know why it never
happened. Perhaps my sperm were crap swimmers. If you had had a baby sure it probably would havebeen born
wearing armbands.
Whatever my deficiencies were, or are, Tony clearly does not share them, at least in that department. Perhaps in
others, but that's just my jealousy coming through. I know nothing about him, besides the fact that he can throw a
decent punch. I don't know what your feelings for him really are because I have been too scared to delve too deeply;
because I love you, any protestations of love for another man bring me one step closer to ... I don't know ... I should
cross that bit out, but I'm just writing this as it comes so that it's completely honest ... okay, I don't know what I'll do if
you love him.
But what if he doesn't love you? What if he wants nothing to do with the baby? You must be tearing yourself apart
worrying about it. You probably don't need your long-departed husband bending your ear on lost love while you try to
figure out what to do with your baby.
Perhaps you've thought about getting rid of it. Don't. No matter what your thoughts on Tony, or his decision,
it/he/she is your baby. It's a little you. It may be a little bit him as well, but sure you can beat that out of him/her/it.
Let me make you an offer. Come back to me and have the baby.
Be mine and he/she/it will be mine as well. I won't even say it'll be as if it's my child, it will be my child; I will
never think of it in any other way; even in the depths of our worst argument I will not cast it up, for there is nothing to
cast up.
Come to me here in New York.
Do you remember we always hated those Hollywood love stories? Hated the idea of people's lives being ruined all
over the world because they were pursuing a mythical idea of true love they had fallen for in the cinema. And then we
went to see When Harry Met Sally and cried our eyes out and it turned out we were old Hollywood romantics after all,
that we thought in those tough cynical times we needed the Hollywood idea of love to hope for in the midst of the
grim realities of life. Remember we went through our hopelessly romantic phase after that - we bought the little puppy,
and for months neither of us had the guts to say that we didn't like it for fear of hurting each other and it just
absolutely ruled our lives. Jesus, remember the day we found ourselves hiding upstairs so that we wouldn't have to
play with it? It wasn't the pup's fault; we were suffering from first love laziness and wanted to recline in each other's
arms in front of the box and maybe occasionally pet a laconic puppy, not to have to sit with our feet up on the couch
so that it wouldn't eat our toes or spend every night wiping slabbers off the glass table. There was such a relief when
your dad finally took it away. He said he had a good home for it, but I've always had a sneaking suspicion that the Mr
Watters he talked about had more to do with a plastic bin bag, a couple of bricks and the River Lagan than a home for
unwanted puppies.
Still, it was the thought that counted, and we thought a good PUPPY.
Remember the Magic Settee? How long since we made love on that? Is it my imagination, or did something go out
of our marriage once we stored it away? Why did we store it away? Was it covered in dog hairs? [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]