Do you think it’s chance that’s thrown us together like this, philosopher? Has fate had a hand in it?
What are we doing with our lives? Are we being reckless with our lives? Are we spoiling them, our lives? But we’re free to do that, aren’t we? We’re free to do exactly as we please. That’s the thing. That’s the problem with too much freedom. I mean, what should we be doing with it? Something meaningful, I’m sure. But what is meaningful? Who can tell?
This deception can’t be good for anyone, can it? It can’t be good for us. Do you ever wonder what it’s doing to us? We’re demons. Or I am. I’ve become demonic.
And I don’t mind, that’s the thing. Which makes me doubly demonic.
Did I used to have a conscience? Maybe. But then I got so booored … All kinds of things are justified when you’re bored, aren’t they? And marriage gets very very dull.
Corruption comes with age. Were we better when you were young, philosopher? More idealistic, maybe? More delightfully open to the world? Were we full of joy, back then, when we were eighteen. When we hadn’t yet worked things out?
Because now we’re old … and cynical … and corrupted. Now we know the wheels that turn in the night. Now we know the engines that grind and grind.
I’ve got it all. A very nice roof over my head. And a house in Mallorca. To think: I have a house in Mallorca. How did that happen?
I’ve done well, haven’t I? I’ve made good.
The agony of no agony. The agony of banality. Is there such a thing? The agony of my husband snoozing after dinner. The agony of conversations about work. Which aren’t even an agony.
The everyday, philosopher. I can’t bear the everyday. I can’t bear the banality. Spare me from the banality.
Am I like some bored housewife? A bored housewife, who happens to work? Whose life isn’t fulfilling enough? Who wants a little extra thrill? And you’re my thrill …
Of all the crimes I could commit, it isn’t the most serious, is it?
I’m pleasing myself. And perhaps I’m pleasing you.
After all, this doesn’t hurt anyone. Does it?
How about us? Does it hurt us? Is it corrupting us? We’ve become liars. Dissemblers. We won’t tell the whole truth. Well, I say ‘we’, but I mean ‘I’.
Because you’re okay. You’re just the occasion of adultery. But then you have meetings with him, don’t you, my husband. My provider. You’re lying to him, implicitly …
God … what webs we weave. How deeply we’re compromised. Was life ever simple? Should it be that: just simple? Just easy? Just streamlined? Just heading in the right direction?
A soap opera staple. A TV drama staple. All the ingredients for a melodrama. And a crappy melodrama, at that. It’s bound to come out. It’s bound to lead to some … argy-bargy.
Work in Progress 