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31_days2011-10-11 12:33 am
treeflamingo.livejournal.com) wrote in 31_days2011-10-11 12:33 am
[Oct 10] [Original] Scarf and Hepburn Glasses
Title: Scarf and Hepburn Glasses
Day/Theme: 10. Solitude grows old; I belong to the night
Series: Original, one shot
Character/Pairing: housewife
Rating: PG
Genre: drama? journal?
A/N: If you happen to read this, I'd appreciate some commentary - I'm not sure at the moment how well I executed this. Also, it's only just past the 10th in my time zone, so Mods, please forgive me.
October 5th
I never would have put up with this when I was younger, you know. I would have followed you out to whatever bar you and your “boss” were hobnobbing at, and I would have dragged you home by the scruff of your well-starched collar – digging my finger nails deep into my own handiwork. I would have put on a scarf and glasses and waited outside your company at closing time, watching for you to waltz out, suit coat slung breezily over your arm, tie loosened in preparation for the drinks and other diversions to come. I would have hopped into the taxi behind yours, leaned forward and murmured (in that smoky voice that used to drive you crazy back in college, still did, at the beginning of our marriage, though you wouldn’t admit it by then) Follow that car to the driver, smirking with the right corner of one perfectly red lip at the widening of his eyes, feeling his excitement and nervousness; I would have leaned back then and flipped the ends of my scarf behind me, breezily, checking my lipstick in my compact, in preparation for the diversions to come. I would have followed you from bar to bar, slinking like the minx you used to tell me I was, making veiled eye contact, over the rim of my Hepburn glasses, with every woman you put your hand on, until you were completely sotted. And then I would have dragged you home, by that stiff collar stained with no lipstick at all (not even mine, because my mother taught me to be a woman who does not need to stoop like that), and left you, still shod, in the cold hallway, while I slept in our warm bed, with the door locked. But you would never have made me do these things, when we were younger. You wouldn’t have stayed out all night at bars. You wouldn’t have kept me waiting in front of a cold and immaculate dinner for hours, with nothing but heavy-breathed excuses to fill my stomach with when you finally came home at quarter-till-tomorrow. You didn’t. But you did other things, those subtle comments over the morning newspaper about the condition of your socks, or the slight quirk of the eyebrows when you tasted my miso and it wasn’t like your mother’s. The way you ran your finger along the bureau in the bedroom, the railing on the stair, the black ribbon about the frame of your father’s picture, and never once smiled. That long-suffering look you adopted whenever I mentioned an exotic locale that would make for such a romantic vacation, I’d just read about it in my ladies’ magazine… or the fact that the non-stick coating on my pans was chipping and it would be such an ease to my mind if I could be sure that none of it would end up in the food I was serving you… Anyway, what I want you to know is, it’s your fault I’ve become this servile woman who has no courage beyond what it takes to sit on her own couch and feel dissatisfied. It’s all your fault.
October 11th
I have decided, as you will find out when you examine the credit card bill, and don’t you dare tell me that you do no such thing, because I’ve seen you do it, that it is as much a woman’s right to get drunk by herself in her own home as it is a man’s right to get drunk in public with his workmates. And don’t you even attempt, don’t you even utter the first syllable of that old argument about duty. It is never a duty to neglect your wife in favor of reliving youthful idiocies. I won’t support even one sake-breath of that nonsense. I have more self-respect than that. My mother taught me better. Yes, my mother, yes, she taught me, and yes, I said better. Your naïve belief that your mother’s ministrations were patently superior to those of mine, that I, or your company kouhai, or, dare-you-make-the-implication even your department manager, may have been improved, or at the very least better off had we the privilege of such care and manipulation as your mother saw fit to impose upon you, has always, yes, since the beginning, and naïve, stupid, fool that I was, I didn’t see how important this would become – I have always felt that your blind faith in her borders on the religious. You should have been a Catholic. I have decided, as a matter of fact, that all men should have been Catholic. The neighbor across the street, Mrs-What’s-Her-Name, Mrs-Flat-Faced-Man-With-Eternally-Ugly-Ties, she agrees with me, although she doesn’t know it. He, too, Mr-Flat-Faced-Man-With-Eternally-Ugly-Ties, he also believes that his mother is infinitely finer than the mother of any other human being of his acquaintance. This includes his own children, which is a rather horridly inconsiderate thing to levy onto your children. The idea that their mother is an inferior model. But the point is this, that only Catholics have such unlimited faith in Mothers. They pray to the Mother of God, don’t they? Mr-Ugly-Tie across the street greets his dead mother every morning and every evening; perhaps he thinks he’s god. I’ll bet you call your mother on your lunch break, like a dutiful son; I’ll be you think you’re god. Well. This is one drunk housewife who disagrees with you, mister. One drunk wife of a son of a bitch who will never get on her knees for you again, even if you do ask nicely. But to be honest with you, at this very moment, none of this seems as important as the fact that the ice cubes have diluted my sangria past the point of forgiveness. This is barely sangria anymore; this is watery cheap wine with apples in it. This is infuriating. Nothing you’ve ever done has been as ludicrously infuriating as this weak glass of sangria. Do you know what that means, darling? It means that my sangria is more important than you. And I’m sure you’d smile indulgently at the thought of me drinking such a woman’s drink, since you drink dry, masculine rice liquor. So you think about that for a moment, that wine has a greater claim on me than you do, and then tell me how you feel about it.
November 1st
Here’s something for you to tell your mother on your daily lunch break calls. I’ve decided on a favorite. I prefer Johnny Walker Black Label above all other drinks. It’s taken me… three weeks to decide this. I’m sure your mother will approve. She always tells me that a good wife, a dutiful wife makes sure educate herself in the etiquette of both the East and the West, so as to be able to do her husband credit in any situation. After all, she can never be quite sure when her husband will require her attendance at some function with his foreign business partners. Germans and Frenchmen and Chinese are all very particular about things, she urges me to be aware. Perhaps she had higher aspirations for you than middle-management salaryman. Or perhaps you filially lie to her about the weightiness of your responsibilities on those lunch break calls. You’ve never so much as heard the personal name of your foreign business partners. But. A good and dutiful wife is a stalwart champion for her husband and is prepared for all of his successes, neither daunted nor disappointed by his minor setbacks. No matter how numerous or consecutive or indistinguishable from simple status quo they may be. So I’ve educated myself in the ancient and erudite art of Western booze. Of course, I’ve quickly realized the folly of my early sangria-drinking ways – oh! It shames me to think on it – everyone knows that the Spanish couldn’t be less important in international business affairs. A high class American whisky is, really, a most prudent choice – flattering to natives of that still (won’t it ever die?) enormously powerful economy, and yet hearkening to the granddady authority of England and its United Kingdom. And should any rugged Scotsman question my choice of brand, recommending to me a better and an older recipe, I’ll have something to stand in as it’s (diplomatically unfavorable) comparison. Your mother will be pleased. Perhaps this will finally make up for my sin of childlessness. Oh, I know, you needn’t reassure me – she, saint she is, a Madonna, really – she would never blame me for our lack of progeny. She is, as she well knows, far too kind-hearted to resent a person for her handicaps. But I do feel so responsible about it, and perhaps, if I could, I’d like to see if I could prove myself in some other way. And I’m just so cosmopolitan these days – Jonny Walker Black Label is, as I’ve said, my preference, but I’ve grown quite familiar with the German brews and the Russian distillations and the French fermentations – I’d just… oh, darling, I’d be so grateful if you could let her know.
November 17th
Last night I finally did it. I put on a scarf and glasses, and I went out. No, I didn’t go looking for you. What could possibly be more boring than hunting down a middle-aged salaryman to find out whether it is Kirin Ichiban or Asahi Dry that has been growing a umor in his gut these past few years? No, no, darling, I wrapped myself in that drab trench I bought myself for our anniversary three years ago, walked a few blocks to the station, applied my very reddest lipstick in the women-only car on the south-bound train, and I went to a bar. I made the most enchanting friends. Did you know that there are people who think I am interesting? Oh, you wouldn’t know. Whether my interest is the direct product of my insobriety, or whether it’s been there all along, this distinction is unimportant. The point is, you have no idea what I’m like anymore, and there are certain people, certain men in this world who feel that this is your loss. Oh, darling, you should have seen the eyes being made at me – when you were a younger man, I’m sure it would have gotten you quite flustered. I’m sure you would have felt your strong hands curl into fists in your pockets, and you would have heated up your glare and sent it straight at those errant eyes that had the gall to wander over to me. Perhaps you would even have sat straighter in your bar stool, or, no! no, you would have stood up to make sure the man could see you, how tall you are, all 176 centimeters of you, and you’d have pushed your shoulders back, laid a hand on my spine, just a few conservative notches above my waist, because unlike that man, you had a mother taught you how to be decent. Now, though, I think you would have raised a sloppy eyebrow, and laughed about it with your friends. Who looks at a woman in her forties? What a sob! Well. You’d be welcome to do so. You mean less to me than sangria, darling, and I haven’t cared about sangria in a month. There are women who think me courageous, and men who think me – what was the word he used? It was quite shocking, I recall, and really, I wasn’t sure at first if I should smile or slap him – oh yes, it was experienced. He said I was the sort of woman a man didn’t have to be anxious over, I woman who knew what she was doing and how to get it done. He said a man should know how to value a woman like that. And the bartender said I was a card. A card! I’m sure you’d have been quite shocked. But I don’t know that I’ll ever see him again. If Mrs-Ugly-Tie across the street were to see me on my way out and ask me… goodness, I’d hate it if she asked to tag along. She’s a dear soul, of course, but the whole evening she’d be on about nothing but her children, and that would just put a damper on everything.
November 21st
He was there again! Oh, I’m still trembling over it, he was there again. Darling, I fear I’ve become a sinful woman. He’s so young darling, but do you know? I think the last time you had me really excited, you were just precisely his age. Perhaps it isn’t really your fault after all, darling. Perhaps it’s inevitable; perhaps it’s impossible for a man to stay interesting past that age. Would you believe he’s enrolled in and dropped out of three different colleges? How scandalous! That’s what Mrs-Flat-Face would say. I’m sure I would have been scandalized when I was younger as well, but you see, darling, there’s nothing so idiotic as slapping labels on things you don’t understand. He explained to me all about his youth (he talks about when he was young! As if he weren’t still young even now – but that’s part of his charm), and why none of his choices were mistakes because they all taught him important truths, and he how regrets none of them. He quotes Thomas Edison, darling – how’s that for developing an intimacy with the Western world? – he says he hasn’t failed at all; he’s simply found all manner of ways to do something other than what he wants. Oh, we talked forever, darling. We talked and talked and talked, and would you like to know something wonderful? Darling, I’ll tell you, my heart nearly stopped when I recognized it. He listened just as much as I did. And he looked directly at me – his eyes on my face and gestures, and on the glass I raised my lips (but never on his own), and on the stray wisps of hair that escaped from the scarf wrapped about my head. He told me to take the scarf off, but I told him that women of my age and status had a certain image to protect, and do you know what he did, darling? He laughed! He laughed like a child, and tucked a bang back beneath the scarf, and told me I was a thing worth protecting. Darling, I feel it’s only fair to warn you – I plan to see him again tomorrow night.
November 25th
Well. He wasn’t there the night I went looking for him, and then I tried a different bar the night after because I am a woman who waits for no man, not even young and exciting ones. But there’s only one bartender who knows how I like my martinis – did I tell you I’ve moved on to martinis now? – and so I was seduced back there last night. And there he was. He told me some sob story about how he had to take an extra shift at the restaurant because his friend caught the flu from his irresponsible girlfriend, and that he’d hurried over as soon as he’d gotten off, but it had already been past midnight and I’d left already. I believe him, of course, but he doesn’t need to know that just yet. I’ve forgiven him as well, and I’d have refrained from imparting that little tidbit as well, if I could have helped it. But he was so very penitent, and I’ve always had a compassionate heart… You know, darling, I never regretted that you were my high school sweetheart. I’d never thought any less of myself for it, that I, unlike so many of my housewife counterparts, had never learned to satisfy more than one man. We’ve been together forever, haven’t we darling? But I’ve always thought that reflected well on me, on my dedication of chastity. And I pleased you well for many years; I have this pride notched deeply in my belt. I still don’t regret it, darling. I’ve no doubt, at any rate, of my ability to learn the ins and outs of a man, to learn to give him just exactly what he wants. But darling, as much as I learned from you, there were certain things you simply couldn’t teach me. You’ve always been such a conservative, darling. There are many things that can’t be experienced without incumbent risk. He – that man – he… cracked open a textbook for me, so to speak, and the things he taught me are things I do regret having waited so long to learn. But I learned one final thing from you last night, darling, and that is that, even should I come home by the first morning train, disheveled and dispossessed of some of the silkier things I’d been wearing the night before, you, still snoring drunken on the couch, will never, ever know.
Day/Theme: 10. Solitude grows old; I belong to the night
Series: Original, one shot
Character/Pairing: housewife
Rating: PG
Genre: drama? journal?
A/N: If you happen to read this, I'd appreciate some commentary - I'm not sure at the moment how well I executed this. Also, it's only just past the 10th in my time zone, so Mods, please forgive me.
October 5th
I never would have put up with this when I was younger, you know. I would have followed you out to whatever bar you and your “boss” were hobnobbing at, and I would have dragged you home by the scruff of your well-starched collar – digging my finger nails deep into my own handiwork. I would have put on a scarf and glasses and waited outside your company at closing time, watching for you to waltz out, suit coat slung breezily over your arm, tie loosened in preparation for the drinks and other diversions to come. I would have hopped into the taxi behind yours, leaned forward and murmured (in that smoky voice that used to drive you crazy back in college, still did, at the beginning of our marriage, though you wouldn’t admit it by then) Follow that car to the driver, smirking with the right corner of one perfectly red lip at the widening of his eyes, feeling his excitement and nervousness; I would have leaned back then and flipped the ends of my scarf behind me, breezily, checking my lipstick in my compact, in preparation for the diversions to come. I would have followed you from bar to bar, slinking like the minx you used to tell me I was, making veiled eye contact, over the rim of my Hepburn glasses, with every woman you put your hand on, until you were completely sotted. And then I would have dragged you home, by that stiff collar stained with no lipstick at all (not even mine, because my mother taught me to be a woman who does not need to stoop like that), and left you, still shod, in the cold hallway, while I slept in our warm bed, with the door locked. But you would never have made me do these things, when we were younger. You wouldn’t have stayed out all night at bars. You wouldn’t have kept me waiting in front of a cold and immaculate dinner for hours, with nothing but heavy-breathed excuses to fill my stomach with when you finally came home at quarter-till-tomorrow. You didn’t. But you did other things, those subtle comments over the morning newspaper about the condition of your socks, or the slight quirk of the eyebrows when you tasted my miso and it wasn’t like your mother’s. The way you ran your finger along the bureau in the bedroom, the railing on the stair, the black ribbon about the frame of your father’s picture, and never once smiled. That long-suffering look you adopted whenever I mentioned an exotic locale that would make for such a romantic vacation, I’d just read about it in my ladies’ magazine… or the fact that the non-stick coating on my pans was chipping and it would be such an ease to my mind if I could be sure that none of it would end up in the food I was serving you… Anyway, what I want you to know is, it’s your fault I’ve become this servile woman who has no courage beyond what it takes to sit on her own couch and feel dissatisfied. It’s all your fault.
October 11th
I have decided, as you will find out when you examine the credit card bill, and don’t you dare tell me that you do no such thing, because I’ve seen you do it, that it is as much a woman’s right to get drunk by herself in her own home as it is a man’s right to get drunk in public with his workmates. And don’t you even attempt, don’t you even utter the first syllable of that old argument about duty. It is never a duty to neglect your wife in favor of reliving youthful idiocies. I won’t support even one sake-breath of that nonsense. I have more self-respect than that. My mother taught me better. Yes, my mother, yes, she taught me, and yes, I said better. Your naïve belief that your mother’s ministrations were patently superior to those of mine, that I, or your company kouhai, or, dare-you-make-the-implication even your department manager, may have been improved, or at the very least better off had we the privilege of such care and manipulation as your mother saw fit to impose upon you, has always, yes, since the beginning, and naïve, stupid, fool that I was, I didn’t see how important this would become – I have always felt that your blind faith in her borders on the religious. You should have been a Catholic. I have decided, as a matter of fact, that all men should have been Catholic. The neighbor across the street, Mrs-What’s-Her-Name, Mrs-Flat-Faced-Man-With-Eternally-Ugly-Ties, she agrees with me, although she doesn’t know it. He, too, Mr-Flat-Faced-Man-With-Eternally-Ugly-Ties, he also believes that his mother is infinitely finer than the mother of any other human being of his acquaintance. This includes his own children, which is a rather horridly inconsiderate thing to levy onto your children. The idea that their mother is an inferior model. But the point is this, that only Catholics have such unlimited faith in Mothers. They pray to the Mother of God, don’t they? Mr-Ugly-Tie across the street greets his dead mother every morning and every evening; perhaps he thinks he’s god. I’ll bet you call your mother on your lunch break, like a dutiful son; I’ll be you think you’re god. Well. This is one drunk housewife who disagrees with you, mister. One drunk wife of a son of a bitch who will never get on her knees for you again, even if you do ask nicely. But to be honest with you, at this very moment, none of this seems as important as the fact that the ice cubes have diluted my sangria past the point of forgiveness. This is barely sangria anymore; this is watery cheap wine with apples in it. This is infuriating. Nothing you’ve ever done has been as ludicrously infuriating as this weak glass of sangria. Do you know what that means, darling? It means that my sangria is more important than you. And I’m sure you’d smile indulgently at the thought of me drinking such a woman’s drink, since you drink dry, masculine rice liquor. So you think about that for a moment, that wine has a greater claim on me than you do, and then tell me how you feel about it.
November 1st
Here’s something for you to tell your mother on your daily lunch break calls. I’ve decided on a favorite. I prefer Johnny Walker Black Label above all other drinks. It’s taken me… three weeks to decide this. I’m sure your mother will approve. She always tells me that a good wife, a dutiful wife makes sure educate herself in the etiquette of both the East and the West, so as to be able to do her husband credit in any situation. After all, she can never be quite sure when her husband will require her attendance at some function with his foreign business partners. Germans and Frenchmen and Chinese are all very particular about things, she urges me to be aware. Perhaps she had higher aspirations for you than middle-management salaryman. Or perhaps you filially lie to her about the weightiness of your responsibilities on those lunch break calls. You’ve never so much as heard the personal name of your foreign business partners. But. A good and dutiful wife is a stalwart champion for her husband and is prepared for all of his successes, neither daunted nor disappointed by his minor setbacks. No matter how numerous or consecutive or indistinguishable from simple status quo they may be. So I’ve educated myself in the ancient and erudite art of Western booze. Of course, I’ve quickly realized the folly of my early sangria-drinking ways – oh! It shames me to think on it – everyone knows that the Spanish couldn’t be less important in international business affairs. A high class American whisky is, really, a most prudent choice – flattering to natives of that still (won’t it ever die?) enormously powerful economy, and yet hearkening to the granddady authority of England and its United Kingdom. And should any rugged Scotsman question my choice of brand, recommending to me a better and an older recipe, I’ll have something to stand in as it’s (diplomatically unfavorable) comparison. Your mother will be pleased. Perhaps this will finally make up for my sin of childlessness. Oh, I know, you needn’t reassure me – she, saint she is, a Madonna, really – she would never blame me for our lack of progeny. She is, as she well knows, far too kind-hearted to resent a person for her handicaps. But I do feel so responsible about it, and perhaps, if I could, I’d like to see if I could prove myself in some other way. And I’m just so cosmopolitan these days – Jonny Walker Black Label is, as I’ve said, my preference, but I’ve grown quite familiar with the German brews and the Russian distillations and the French fermentations – I’d just… oh, darling, I’d be so grateful if you could let her know.
November 17th
Last night I finally did it. I put on a scarf and glasses, and I went out. No, I didn’t go looking for you. What could possibly be more boring than hunting down a middle-aged salaryman to find out whether it is Kirin Ichiban or Asahi Dry that has been growing a umor in his gut these past few years? No, no, darling, I wrapped myself in that drab trench I bought myself for our anniversary three years ago, walked a few blocks to the station, applied my very reddest lipstick in the women-only car on the south-bound train, and I went to a bar. I made the most enchanting friends. Did you know that there are people who think I am interesting? Oh, you wouldn’t know. Whether my interest is the direct product of my insobriety, or whether it’s been there all along, this distinction is unimportant. The point is, you have no idea what I’m like anymore, and there are certain people, certain men in this world who feel that this is your loss. Oh, darling, you should have seen the eyes being made at me – when you were a younger man, I’m sure it would have gotten you quite flustered. I’m sure you would have felt your strong hands curl into fists in your pockets, and you would have heated up your glare and sent it straight at those errant eyes that had the gall to wander over to me. Perhaps you would even have sat straighter in your bar stool, or, no! no, you would have stood up to make sure the man could see you, how tall you are, all 176 centimeters of you, and you’d have pushed your shoulders back, laid a hand on my spine, just a few conservative notches above my waist, because unlike that man, you had a mother taught you how to be decent. Now, though, I think you would have raised a sloppy eyebrow, and laughed about it with your friends. Who looks at a woman in her forties? What a sob! Well. You’d be welcome to do so. You mean less to me than sangria, darling, and I haven’t cared about sangria in a month. There are women who think me courageous, and men who think me – what was the word he used? It was quite shocking, I recall, and really, I wasn’t sure at first if I should smile or slap him – oh yes, it was experienced. He said I was the sort of woman a man didn’t have to be anxious over, I woman who knew what she was doing and how to get it done. He said a man should know how to value a woman like that. And the bartender said I was a card. A card! I’m sure you’d have been quite shocked. But I don’t know that I’ll ever see him again. If Mrs-Ugly-Tie across the street were to see me on my way out and ask me… goodness, I’d hate it if she asked to tag along. She’s a dear soul, of course, but the whole evening she’d be on about nothing but her children, and that would just put a damper on everything.
November 21st
He was there again! Oh, I’m still trembling over it, he was there again. Darling, I fear I’ve become a sinful woman. He’s so young darling, but do you know? I think the last time you had me really excited, you were just precisely his age. Perhaps it isn’t really your fault after all, darling. Perhaps it’s inevitable; perhaps it’s impossible for a man to stay interesting past that age. Would you believe he’s enrolled in and dropped out of three different colleges? How scandalous! That’s what Mrs-Flat-Face would say. I’m sure I would have been scandalized when I was younger as well, but you see, darling, there’s nothing so idiotic as slapping labels on things you don’t understand. He explained to me all about his youth (he talks about when he was young! As if he weren’t still young even now – but that’s part of his charm), and why none of his choices were mistakes because they all taught him important truths, and he how regrets none of them. He quotes Thomas Edison, darling – how’s that for developing an intimacy with the Western world? – he says he hasn’t failed at all; he’s simply found all manner of ways to do something other than what he wants. Oh, we talked forever, darling. We talked and talked and talked, and would you like to know something wonderful? Darling, I’ll tell you, my heart nearly stopped when I recognized it. He listened just as much as I did. And he looked directly at me – his eyes on my face and gestures, and on the glass I raised my lips (but never on his own), and on the stray wisps of hair that escaped from the scarf wrapped about my head. He told me to take the scarf off, but I told him that women of my age and status had a certain image to protect, and do you know what he did, darling? He laughed! He laughed like a child, and tucked a bang back beneath the scarf, and told me I was a thing worth protecting. Darling, I feel it’s only fair to warn you – I plan to see him again tomorrow night.
November 25th
Well. He wasn’t there the night I went looking for him, and then I tried a different bar the night after because I am a woman who waits for no man, not even young and exciting ones. But there’s only one bartender who knows how I like my martinis – did I tell you I’ve moved on to martinis now? – and so I was seduced back there last night. And there he was. He told me some sob story about how he had to take an extra shift at the restaurant because his friend caught the flu from his irresponsible girlfriend, and that he’d hurried over as soon as he’d gotten off, but it had already been past midnight and I’d left already. I believe him, of course, but he doesn’t need to know that just yet. I’ve forgiven him as well, and I’d have refrained from imparting that little tidbit as well, if I could have helped it. But he was so very penitent, and I’ve always had a compassionate heart… You know, darling, I never regretted that you were my high school sweetheart. I’d never thought any less of myself for it, that I, unlike so many of my housewife counterparts, had never learned to satisfy more than one man. We’ve been together forever, haven’t we darling? But I’ve always thought that reflected well on me, on my dedication of chastity. And I pleased you well for many years; I have this pride notched deeply in my belt. I still don’t regret it, darling. I’ve no doubt, at any rate, of my ability to learn the ins and outs of a man, to learn to give him just exactly what he wants. But darling, as much as I learned from you, there were certain things you simply couldn’t teach me. You’ve always been such a conservative, darling. There are many things that can’t be experienced without incumbent risk. He – that man – he… cracked open a textbook for me, so to speak, and the things he taught me are things I do regret having waited so long to learn. But I learned one final thing from you last night, darling, and that is that, even should I come home by the first morning train, disheveled and dispossessed of some of the silkier things I’d been wearing the night before, you, still snoring drunken on the couch, will never, ever know.