It is Saturday morning. A copy of this magazine is open on the kitchen table, and my wife is peering down at this very page.
“I did not say, ‘How’s it going?’” she says.
“I think you’ll find you did,” I say.
“I wouldn’t have said that, because I was actually listening to the leadership announcement when I rang,” she says. “It makes me sound like I don’t give a shit.”
“The phone call is not important.” I say. “The phone call is a narrative device.”
The youngest one walks in. “What’s up?” he asks.
“Your father is lying about us in print,” my wife says. “Again.”
The boy sits down in front of the magazine and begins reading.
“Your version of events is, I’m sure, a comfort to you,” I say to my wife. Well, not really. I don’t even think of this until much later.
My wife comes over to where I am pouring coffee and looks down at the worktop, where another bit of the paper is lying folded.
“Did you leave this here for me to find?” she says. She is pointing to a review of the book I’m currently reading, Grief Is The Thing With Feathers, by Max Porter.
“Yes, I did,” I say, even though I didn’t. “Don’t even pretend you don’t want to read that book.”
“I don’t want to read that book,” she says.
My wife recommends books to me often, and sometimes I read them, and they are always good. But she never reads the books I recommend.
I take my coffee and sit down next to the youngest one.
“It’s about grief,” I say. “It’s good.”
“You can’t make me read a book I don’t want to read!” my wife says.
The youngest one looks up from the magazine at me. “The way you’ve got us discussing politics makes it sound like we don’t know what we’re talking about,” he says.
“Read on,” I say. “I make it quite clear that I wasn’t really listening.”
Later on, after lunch, my wife announces that she is going to read. I find her in the bedroom with a book. “What are you doing here?” she asks.
“I’m also going to read,” I say, picking up my book and lying down beside her.
“Go away,” she says.
“In fact, I’m nearly done with my book,” I say. “Then you can have it.”
“I don’t want it,” she says.
“Or should I just read it to you?”
“Fine,” my wife replies. “Read me your stupid book.”
I open it in the middle and do a page and a half in my best reading voice – not too dramatic, not too fast. Then I look over at my wife, who is staring back at me with narrowed eyes.
“I can see that it’s good,” she says. “Now shut up.”
“One more page,” I say, turning over.
Halfway through the next paragraph, something odd happens: the words start to blur and swim. I choose a place to stop, but the final line will not come out. Because the book is about grief, and because all the grief I harbour has been improperly stowed, I suddenly cannot push six words past my closing throat.
But I keep trying, because this bit only really makes sense with the last line included, and I need to say it so my wife will understand that I have a grip on the essential truth of things, and excellent taste in books.
I blink, breathe in and try to read the line out loud once more. After a gulping silence, the six words finally emerge as a ragged sob. It’s embarrassing, but also sort of effective.
I turn to look at my wife, and see that she is fast asleep.
