I
We were trying to pick a path through the scattered boulders, the slabs, the strange conjunctions of rocky outcrops, vertical, horizontal, random. It was late afternoon, the sun heading for those western hills, the cold air beginning to sink into the bones. I think it is worth commenting on the fact that neither of us appeared anxious about time, neither of us expressed any concern then that we might have to finish the walk in the dark. Our attention was restrained, perhaps blinkered; we were reluctant to start the roaring, uncontrollable ball of fear rolling down the steep gradient.
What’s the worst thing that can happen? Hypothermia. Death. Broken bones. Spending a long night out in the open?
It was a week into January, the middle of winter but we were in the dream of an endless summer’s day; in the dream of one step after the next and each step demanded our complete attention. Our desultory conversation consisted of gentle, half-humorous self-revelations.
II
Celibacy looked so clear and beautiful; a solution to certain problems that he had never put into words and had no wish to put into words.
His mother said:
You must wear a crash helmet when you go out on that bike of yours.
The remark crushed the beauty of the moment. He collapsed into a nearby chair.
I thought you were going out.
Yes, he said, but made no move.
The only sound was the ticking of the clock.
Two weeks ago he had sworn never to get angry with her again – whatever she said, whatever criticism she threw at him in her sharp nag of a voice.
He had sworn to be stronger than her.
Having sacrificed anger he had been granted a vision of a new life laid out before him, a gift from God. With every fibre of his being he had believed in this vision of his life and devoted himself to it.
But now . . .
In a second she had crushed everything to meaningless sludge.
Just as she always had.
Time telescoped to nothing.
He might as well go and get married.