On the metaphysical front, the burning of sage is unsucessful. House reeks of doom, and now sage too.
Suzanne FinnamoreFor me, it´s sloth," I say. "Hedonistic sloth and escapism.
Suzanne FinnamoreStichwörter: deception marriage relationships infidelity divorce breaking-up cheating
Together we agree that there are few tableaus more pathetic than a woman poring over a plethora of self-help books, while in a small café across town her husband is sharing a bottle of Pouilly-Fuissé and fettucini Alfredo with a beautiful woman, fondling her fishnet knee and making careful plans to escape his life.
Suzanne FinnamoreStichwörter: deception marriage self-help infidelity divorce
We talk. Darlene worries aloud that her husband works with a lot of attractive young women; she herself is fourty. I tell her it´s not about age. "Little thing called character," I say, thinking, Accepting marital advice from me: the height of lunacy.
Suzanne FinnamoreStichwörter: deception marriage infidelity divorce
To keep myself from harming or calling N and to stave off the rage and despair, I focus on my extraordinary son, drink midrange Chardonnay every night after he is asleep, and make a barrage of late-night mail-order retail purchases placed from the couch. The couch has officially become my second battle station. I am angry and I have credit And I´m all blackened inside; I should wear a pointy witch hat around Larkspur as I go to the bank and drop A off at day care. It would be more honest.
Suzanne FinnamoreStichwörter: deception marriage relationships infidelity divorce breaking-up cheating
Even better liars can put on a convincing smile, but their eyes aren´t smiling.
Suzanne FinnamoreDivorce is a snakebite. One´s next thought should not be, Where am I going to find another snake?
Suzanne FinnamoreSurprises, I feel now, are primarily a form of violence.
Suzanne FinnamoreStichwörter: deception marriage relationships infidelity divorce breaking-up cheating
I know now with blind certainty that no matter what, eventually marriage is just two financially interdependent strangers staring across the kitchen table at each other. They have backpacks slung across their bodies, containing their sexual and romantic history and unresolved issues and family memories. And there´s nothing but cold cereal, because the days of flaky croissants and foamy cappuccino are over. Reality reclines on top of the refrigerator, leering down with a wry yet tender expression. And one day it all just collapses and the backpacks are hauled away to another kitchen table.
Suzanne FinnamoreI´ve blown past Bitter and am already in the heart of Apathy.
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