“It's never
going to happen," he said.
She didn't look up. "You're so pathetic."
"Not pathetic," he said. "Realistic."
"God." She stirred her tea. "God, Simon. How can you expect other people to take you seriously if you're so negative all the time?"
He stood up. "What gets me is how you ignore all the evidence that being a nihilist is just plain common sense."
"Jesus, here we go." She sipped from the teacup even though the liquid steamed, then pursed her burned lips.
"Everything is futile, okay?” he said. “Everything is pointless. Fact."
He put his jacket on.
"What are you up to today?" she asked.
"Oh, this and that."
"This and what?"
"Just stuff. Just stuff, okay? Stop hassling me."
He hadn't always been like this, she thought. Once, he had been a doer, a thinker too, a maker of things. What she had first loved about him was his long skinny hands, the way he'd juggled a paint brush between them, his steady way of swishing on colour. The paint on the canvas all matted and rutted in swards of blue and crimson. Now, what was he? What had she married but a hollow man? She had forgotten what he looked like when he laughed.
She didn't look up. "You're so pathetic."
"Not pathetic," he said. "Realistic."
"God." She stirred her tea. "God, Simon. How can you expect other people to take you seriously if you're so negative all the time?"
He stood up. "What gets me is how you ignore all the evidence that being a nihilist is just plain common sense."
"Jesus, here we go." She sipped from the teacup even though the liquid steamed, then pursed her burned lips.
"Everything is futile, okay?” he said. “Everything is pointless. Fact."
He put his jacket on.
"What are you up to today?" she asked.
"Oh, this and that."
"This and what?"
"Just stuff. Just stuff, okay? Stop hassling me."
He hadn't always been like this, she thought. Once, he had been a doer, a thinker too, a maker of things. What she had first loved about him was his long skinny hands, the way he'd juggled a paint brush between them, his steady way of swishing on colour. The paint on the canvas all matted and rutted in swards of blue and crimson. Now, what was he? What had she married but a hollow man? She had forgotten what he looked like when he laughed.
There was a knock on the door.
"Yes?" he said, putting his hands in his pockets. "What is it?"
The door
opened. A young man was standing there. He wore a dark suit and his hair was brushed
flat from his forehead.
"Your car is waiting, Prime Minister," said the young man. "But I'm afraid the ambassador is running rather late."
"Your car is waiting, Prime Minister," said the young man. "But I'm afraid the ambassador is running rather late."
