It’s Saturday, just after lunch, and there is something unsettled at my core. It’s nothing specific, yet; just a combination of jumpiness and exhaustion, and a certain skin-prickling sensitivity to my surroundings. It could be anxiety in search of a corresponding crisis, or it could be the day-one orientation of some actual approaching illness. It could also be nothing, but in my experience it pays to keep your eye on these things, because no one else is interested.
I wander from room to room for a while, and eventually end up in bed with a book. When I next open my eyes, the windows are dark. Well, I think. That’s Saturday taken care of.
The door opens and the light snaps on. “Time to get up,” my wife says. “We need to leave in about 20 minutes.”
“What?” I say. “To go where?”
She reminds me that we’re going to dinner and a movie with friends, another couple. It all sounds familiar. “I know nothing about this,” I say.
“I told you this morning,” she says. “It’s that film you don’t want to see.”
“I’m not coming,” I say.
“You have to come,” she says.
“No, I don’t, and I’m not.”
“The boys are out,” she says. “There’s no food. Do you really want to sit in the house in the dark by yourself?”
“It’s all I’ve ever wanted,” I say.
“They’ll be very hurt if you don’t come,” my wife says.
“No, they won’t,” I say. “Tell them I’m ill.” I realise I don’t feel too bad, just a bit hungry. Did she just say there was no food in the house?
“Come on,” my wife says. “Let’s see if we can find a way for you to back down without losing face.”
“I don’t need face,” I say, “because I’m not backing down.”
“Now you’re just being childish,” she says.
“Don’t care,” I say, pulling the duvet over my head.
I find myself in an odd position. My objections to dinner and a movie have more or less evaporated in the space of five minutes; it would be fair to say I’ve lost sight of my goal. But I’m still thrilled to be in accidental possession of the upper hand.
“Please come,” my wife says. There is a hint of desperation in her voice that pleases me.
“Never,” I say.
That’s basically checkmate, I think. She’s got no next move. Now I just need a way to change my mind without losing face.
“Fine,” my wife says. “You ring them and apologise for not coming.”
“I’m not doing that,” I say.
“I’ll ring them for you,” she says, striding from the room.
My mistake is obvious: I failed to consider the possibility of escalation. “I won’t speak!” I shout. “I just won’t say anything!”
When my wife comes back into the room, she is already on the phone, talking to the wife of the couple in question. “We’re having a small problem with motivation,” she says. “I don’t know, some kind of midlife thing.”
“It’s not midlife,” I say. “I’m past midlife.”
“Come on,” my wife says quietly, holding her phone to her chest for a moment. “She says he’s being made to come out as well.”
“No,” I say. “Wait, why doesn’t he want to come out? What’s wrong with us?”
“Perhaps it’s better if I let my husband explain his situation,” my wife says into her phone.
“Don’t you dare,” I say.
“I’ll just get him for you,” she says. “One moment, please.”
She leans over, peels back the duvet and places the phone against my ear.
“We’re on our way,” I say.
