He felt their vulnerable auras bending toward one
another, reaching. He thought about what he'd come to realize at
the dinner table, the feeling of dread inside him that seemed to
suddenly threaten everything in his life. He thought of telling
her about the few close calls he had had over the past couple of
years, how they had ended in tears and shattered dreams for the
students. He thought of telling her that in all their years
together he had never been unfaithful to Kate. He thought of
telling her that in all their years together, Wallaby had never
been unfaithful to him, and it was the same thing. Was, he wanted
to say aloud and tell her, tell anyone who'd listen, why.
But he told her none of these things. Instead he said to himself,
without uttering a word, I had a lot to drink, it was the wine.
But was he really that drunk, or was it something else? Something
worse? That he even considered this excuse, that he was actually
entertaining a defense for something that had not even happened,
not yet, presaged the guilt that would follow if he were to allow
them to come together. And apart. And it was all the same thing,
he told himself. Today, tomorrow, and the next day and every day
after that.
He considered her. She was an angel whose mission was to ease him
into the hereafter. He concluded, when he noticed a powdery white
substance encircling the inner edge of her nostrils, that she was
already "there," perhaps even farther, some point beyond
recognition.
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