Maybe he doesn’t know. Maybe he doesn’t know how much it costs me to ask for help. Even if it’s a little bit of help.
I don’t mean help with Rosie – that’s never a problem. But if I ask for help for me – just me – suddenly there are a swarm of excuses, crowding around my head like midges.
No. I don’t think he knows. He doesn’t know what it costs me to ask. Because if he did, he wouldn’t say: no.
I’ve lived with that no for much of my life. I mean, most of the 17 years we’ve been together. 17. A prime number. Someone somewhere will tell me this is portentous. That its dirty indivisibility speaks of some kind of condemnation. Or maybe I’m just getting Biblical.
Why do I bother, really? To ask him for help, as if I have a right to?
Sometimes, I wish I’d taken that ticket to Hong Kong.
Sometimes, I wish I could get up and go.
Sometimes, it feels more possible to do that.
Sometimes it doesn’t.
Sometimes, it’s easier to say no.
I finally finished Middlemarch last weekend. I did nothing but read, which is why I failed to post. What a work of progressive genius. As I wrote some weeks ago, Middlemarch is about life. There are no easy answers or happy endings. Most marriages shrink over time, with each partner falling away from the other. Only, there is no sound of bodies thudding to the ground in the end. Just the wind, sharp and soughing, through the space between them.