|
You can't put things back.
They won't go back…
Henry
: You can't put things back. They won't go back. Talk to me.
I'm your chap. I know about
this. We start off like one of those caterpillars designed for a particular
leaf. The exclusive voracity of love. And then not.
How strange
that the way of things is not suspended to meet our special case. But it
never is.
I don't want
anyone else but sometimes, surprisingly, there's someone, not the prettiest
or the most available, but you know that in another life it would be her.
Or him, don't you find? A small quickening. The room responds slightly
to being entered. Like a raised blind. Nothing intended and a long way
from doing anything, but you catch the glint of being someone else's possibility,
and it's a sort of politeness to show you haven't missed it, so you push
it a little, well within safety, but there's that sense of a promise almost
being made in the touching and kissing without which no one can seem to
say good morning in this poncy business and one more push would do it.
Billy. Right?
Annie
: Yes.
Henry
: [my
edit]
I don't believe in behaving well. I don't believe in debonair relationships.
'How's your lover today, Amanda?' 'In the pink, Charles. How's yours?'
I believe in mess, tears, pain, self-abasement, loss of self-respect, nakedness.
Not caring doesn't seem much different from not loving.
Did you?
You did, didn't you? |
|
