Watchful and nervous, like one in search of uncertainty, doubtful, impatient, restless, always with blackberry in hand, drinks, eats and smokes hurriedly, listens partially, drives at the highest speed, smiles too swiftly like a 100meter sprinter at a track and field game. His hair, which was once the colour of the buttercup flower, is almost grey from tension, bitterness, sadness, and the pain of having a wife who betrayed him.
There is no bleaker moment in the life of man than when he discovers that his beloved wife is singing the corrosive hymns of alcoholics, killing the inner organs and human love, blurring the memory, filling the body with anxiety and the house with a brutal drumming.
He met her at the bar at which she worked. They drank heavily during the first years of being together without knowing that alcohol heightens passion like the rush of illegal drugs. During a philosophical discourse I once asked him what was the motivational factor for him to marry and his reply was: "Passion."
Passion alone is not love, naked desire is not love, trust on its own is not love. Sadly, he has spent half his life trying to love, but often mistakes passion mingled with excessive alcohol for enduring love, so whenever he feels he has had a brush with enduring love, he cuts himself away from his lover like a doctor cutting the umbilical cord of a new born child.
I think they have damaged their souls by throwing emotional atom bombs at each other. She hates him and he hates her. Hate always destroyes. They are divorcing.It is the best for both. He met a girl last December. Let's see where that goes....
Image: En route to publisher/agent, vintage shopping, luncheon and art preview.
This story is based on a couple I once knew.
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