Disappearing Act, Part IV

Sunday evening.

The problems are back. Still another argument. I don’t even know what it was about. She broods. I fume. I am incapable of writing when I’m angry. She knows that.

Want to call Jane. She at least is interested in what I do. Want to let go of everything, to get myself drunk, to throw myself into water, doesn’t matter what. Not surprising that babies are happy. They have a simple life. A bit hungry, a bit cold, a bit afraid of the dark. Nothing else. What good is it to become a man? Life is a ­­­fraud.

Mary is calling me to come down to dinner. Don’t want to eat. Don’t even want to stay at the house. Maybe I’ll call up Jane a bit later. Just to say hello.