The short time they have been together, they have shared sex, the house and garden! – food and drink! – what some would consider freedom! – although this is probably the last time he will visit.
He can leave, of course.
Several rooms of her house have small windows, too small for anybody to climb out of.
As for the garden – yes, there can be golden flecks in it – there is a glow. And the shrubs and trees in her yard are in cone, globe and weeping shapes. Otherwise, it is undecorated.
Likely, he won’t come to her anymore, despite the fact that she has avoided any ethical question and thinks there is no need for them to be led into a discussion of the difference between, say, truthfulness and truth.
So then, into the kitchen for coffee! – and for pancakes, if he is not too annoyed yet. Not yet.
Each pancake was puffed up, much like a muffin, and produced the illusion of an even, veneered surface.
Last night they served supper to invited guests, who had plenty of space to take off their coats and shoes. These were lightly crumpled people that gave the room they sat in a lived-in feeling.
She is so sorry for her own appearance, for it may seem as if she has been crying, or that she is about to, or that she is slightly off balance – not entirely upright – hair uncombed.
The man wept when he at last left for good, as predicted, but we can see soon enough from the man’s expression, he is no pitiful figure in his present mood.
*
At this point, let me introduce myself – I really don’t know what I am talking about – except that when leaving the woman for good, Hugo Crook experienced long views, magnificent views over the countryside, which his colourful personality is perfectly suited for.
Though you should know, I am on her side. My sympathy’s with her … Always will be. I don’t want to talk about it!
Send Letters To:
The Editor
London Review of Books,
28 Little Russell Street
London, WC1A 2HN
letters@lrb.co.uk
Please include name, address, and a telephone number.
