P tells me she has found a guru. P you remember is my wife of quite a few years, let’s call it twenty four years. Another one, I ask. Why am I asking her when the bottle is at her elbow? She looks at the glass of wine (red, if that’s of any interest) in her hand, swirls the contents (the final ten percent actually, though I had just refilled it for her) gently, looks up at me, looks back at the wine. I assume she is considering her options: throw it or drink it; which would be the more attractive action, give her the most satisfaction.
How come I married you, how did I get so lucky? You’re more attractive and more intelligent and no doubt that includes emotional intelligence, than me. The feedback from those proprioceptive nerves in my facial muscles suggests that I am smiling as I say this.
She throws it.
I lick what I can of it as it runs down my face. And for once I think myself fortunate that I’m wearing an old black T-shirt.
I mean it.
Careful I don’t want to waste another glass of wine. I wonder what it’s like to hit somebody over the head with a bottle. It was your lucky day. Every day that you wake up next to me is your lucky day. But.
I know that BUT that you’re talking about. Even if I forget it at times. I know I shouldn’t. But I do. I might go a whole day without giving thanks to whoever we are supposed to give thanks to. And then, of course, I panic because I don’t know how close I came to the edge of the cliff while I was so out of my mind as to forget what I should never forget. Who are we supposed to give thanks to? These days? These days that we only believe in alcohol and drugs as ways to get us through the days.
And nights.
Yeah, and nights. Though to be honest I prefer to sleep.
Don’t I know it. I shouldn’t say this but I like you. I even like having sex with you. I still can’t believe it even after twenty five years. I know you’re not so bright but I’m impressed with the fact that you don”t let it bother you.
Can I have another glass of wine. Please. She was almost hugging the bottle.
No I don’t think so. I think you’ve had enough and you forced me to waste a glass. That was your glass.
Surely “forced” is a bit strong.
The question of this guru was irritating, scratching at the edge of my mind, but I wasn’t at all sure that it was a good idea to pursue the question. Just leave it; if she wants to say anything about about him (or her) then she will. But is she waiting for me to ask her? A old man with long hair and beard, straggly hair and beard, but dressed in white robes, white gleaming robes. So white that it hurts my eyes. Standing by a river. He never stops speaking. Probably in Sanskrit. Chatting in Sanskrit. And she is sitting cross-legged at his feet. Adoring him. Have I tuned into the right image?
Let’s go for a walk.
It’s dark. And cold.
It’s alright, she says, adopting a very kindly tone, I’ll be with you. I’ll take care of you. And you can wear your new overcoat.
But I don’t have a new overcoat.
Pretend.
How much of life is pretence?
If I insist on my right to not go then what? The river bifurcates, divides, splits, branches. Me on one, she on the other. Me at home, standing up for my rights but lonely.
The air is sharp with crystalline fragments that pierce the lungs. Our breath steamy. I’m laughing too, happy to be in this night of essentialism.
I don’t know what’s going to happen. I don’t know what I’m going to do.
Did I know this already! Had I dreamed it last night? Is she having an affair with this teacher of hers, this guru. I don’t even know whether it’s a man or a woman.
I think: it doesn’t matter. It would take a lump of courage I don’t have control over to say it out loud. And then there’s this other bit, this but of a but of a But I don’t want to be left alone. I could walk to St Pancras and catch a train to . . . Paris and then. Walk out of one life and into another. That’s what she is going to do. An epochal change. Why don’t I?