I could see the whole scene, knew how it would develop and how he would hope and then not hope, would hate and love and rage and feel pity for himself. I could see it all and understand it, and beneath it, or beside it, would be myself, watching, understanding, surviving. And afterwards something would be changed for him, but not for me.

It was like a play, Stephen and I sitting at the table, his eyes shifting, groping for his lines, me knowing both his lines and mine, waiting simply for the end, when I would go back to the life I really had. There was acceptance of this gap in reality, this time to be gotten through, like an actress who knows that she has a performance to give before she can take off her make-up and meet her lover or go home to sleep.

“Aren’t you going to answer me?” he demanded. “Don’t you think you at least owe me that, an answer?” He expected me to be touched, but I was not. I was not holding back compassion; it was that this had nothing to do with me.

“I can try to tell you,” I said softly, “but I don’t know if you can understand.” It brought the anger, his face contorted and he was shouting, his eyes furious. Something in his forehead throbbed.

“Why don’t you think I can understand? Can you remember one moment, one moment in our marriage when I didn’t try to understand? You know better than that. You could say any asshole thing you wanted, and you know I always tried to understand.” He heard what he had said and stopped, confused and embarrassed. When he spoke again it was more softly. “You know what I mean. I knew you weren’t happy, I know you wanted to be doing something more, we talked about all that, but it’s not my fault. You can’t say it was my fault, because I always encouraged you to do what you could, go back to school or whatever, but you never did. So you can’t say I didn’t try, it was you that didn’t try.”

Of course he was right. I remembered it well, and started to laugh, for just a moment, until his face darkened again, he thought I was laughing at him and I put my hand on his arm, quietening, and tried to explain. “I’m sorry, I wasn’t laughing at you. It was me. You’re right, of course, I had asshole ideas. I was so stupid. It all seems so far away.”

“It is far away. You’re like a different person.” He was puzzled now, my hand was back on the table, folded again, and I was calm. “You know you look awful? Totally different?”