When they come in, I’m lying on the sofa, gazing up at the ceiling. Nobody at home but me. That afternoon, the wife has gone out with the girls—some close friends from her high-school days—getting together to talk, then eating dinner out. “Can you grab your own supper?” the wife said before leaving. “There’s vegetables in the fridge and all sorts of frozen foods. That much you can handle for yourself, can’t you? And before the sun goes down, remember to take in the laundry, okay?”

“Sure thing,” I said. Doesn’t faze me a bit. Rice, right? Laundry, right? Nothing to it. Take care of it, simple as SLUPPP KRRRTZ!

“Did you say something, dear?” she asked.

“No, nothing,” I said.

All afternoon I take it easy and loll around on the sofa. I have nothing better to do. I read a bit—that new novel by García Márquez—and listen to some music. I have myself a beer. Still, I’m unable to give my mind to any of this. I consider going back to bed, but I can’t even pull myself together enough to do that. So I wind up lying on the sofa, staring at the ceiling.

The way my Sunday afternoons go, I end up doing a little bit of various things, none very well. It’s a struggle to concentrate on any one thing. This particular day, everything seems to be going right. I think, Today I’ll read this book, listen to these records, answer these letters. Today, for sure, I’ll clean out my desk drawers, run errands, wash the car for once. But two o’clock rolls around, three o’clock rolls around, gradually dusk comes on, and all my plans are blown. I haven’t done a thing; I’ve been lying around on the sofa the whole day, same as always. The clock ticks in my ears. TRPP Q SCHAOUS TRPP Q SCHAOUS. The sound erodes everything around me, little by little, like dripping rain. TRPP Q SCHAOUS TRPP Q SCHAOUS. Little by little, Sunday afternoon wears down, shrinking in scale. Just like the TV People themselves.