Jealousy and doubt

But she's got control. Not him, not Ray. Once he starts he can't stop. How many drinks have there been over the course of a decade? Gallons of vodka, whiskey, wine to alter his moods. To tuck away truth. Seek oblivion. They had walled their love in a bubble world for a few hours every weekend, before she had to go home to her husband and kids. It was such a shitty way to live back then. She betraying her husband. Then finally divorcing him. Her willful behavior, the need to have her way at all costs, has taken a ten-year toll on Ray. Knowing that if she would betray her family, she would betray him too. And why not? He's a burned out old bag. Heartburn, indigestion and bowel troubles. Arthritis in his knees. Intermittent impotence. No wonder she gets that look on her face. The look that says what am I doing here?

She used to say, Sex is how I express my love for you. Sex is the closest we can physically be. You inside of me is spiritual. I never knew I could love this way.

Stuff like that. Stuff she doesn't say anymore. Like you are my soul mate, Ray. She hasn't said that in years.

Soul mate. Cynic that he is, he used to laugh at such drivel. Before he met her. As the weeks became months became years with her, he began to wonder if a mate for the soul might be true. Now he knows he was right in the first place. He is a sentimental dupe. He is a romantic old fool. He is what he used to laugh about. He is.

That's me, he says. And then he says, When I die there will be no one to give the folded flag to. Neither of the kids will come. Maybe one of the grandkids? If a man does not keep pace with his companions--

He paces the floor, goes into the study. Frowns at the bookshelves, the rows of British literature. Shakespeare and his ilk and all things Donne--the metaphysicals. All the lovely words he used to quote to his students. His mind overflowing endlessly able.

Things are not truly, but in equivocal shapes.

Said Thomas Browne, says Ray out loud, satisfied that he still has a brain.

And next to Browne, incongruously (or maybe congruously?) is Alice in Wonderland. Down the rabbit hole. That's where life is. Has been. Will be.

   Ray puts forth a trembling finger, touches Alice and says--
   Speak roughly to your little box:
   And beat him when he sneezes!
   --a coughing laughter follows. He blows his nose. Wipes his eyes.

Laughs heh heh heh, like a mad scientist.

And then he says, Thou shouldst not have been old til thou hadst been wise! So where is she? Whose arms, whose hands, whose-Jesus, the thought is unbearable! I'll kill her. I'll kill myself. Eyes closed he whispers, Let me not go mad. Oh, Fool, I shall go mad!

He pictures the gun in the nightstand. Tomorrow we die anyway, so why not get it over with? Turn time to zero. You will not wake wondering. You will not feel the guilt you have felt these almost eleven years, you the man who bloke up a family. Selfish prick! And you knew it would end this way. You knew in your heart that her passion for you would fade as you aged and the ills of aging started plaguing you, started showing on your stupid face and in the corroded state of your organs. Those gall bladder stones that won't let you digest fats. That burping routine after every meal. Disgusting. Even more disgusting is the IBS that comes and goes. And also your swollen prostate, the itching, burning in there that has made you short-tempered. Doctors can't help you. Forget the bastards, the pompous frauds, the phony fakes. It's a benign hypertrophism, sir. It will be with wm always. Nothing to be done about it. Don't drink. Alcohol is hell on stomachs and prostates. And stay away from spicy foods. Some day we may have to operate if the gland turns cancerous. But surgery is the last resort. They shoved pills at him for his indigestion. Ultram for his arthritis. What a joke that stuff is. Might as well drink snake oil. His ailments overwhelm every elixir, his courage especially. And his love.