All we have in common these days is our misery. Nothing to say that we have not already said a thousand times. Two thousand, perhaps, by now. Tired, stale arguments we draw out from the bottom of the grudge-bag, soft and limp like dirty five pound notes, worn from too many weary transactions. Such is the currency of a relationship.
How can doing the right thing feel so wrong? And while we're wondering, how can doing the wrong thing feel so right? The secret joy of coming home to an empty house, the bed to oneself, solitary sexual adventures. The beige disappointment of an attempted evening together, reading in parallel, an early night without the delights that might imply for other couples, the silence heavy like a woollen cloak. Such is the paradox of a relationship.
The hurly-burly of the chaise-longue is surely better than the deep, deep peace of the living death? Or something like that. Joy is to be found these days in the most unlikely of places, but the search is worthwhile. Take away the parental glow and there would be precious little warmth otherwise - even flaming June will chill you if you do not have someone to hold you tight. Fires of passion or a cold shoulder? The choices we make are a matter of survival. Every man for himself, and every woman too. Such is the territory of a relationship.
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