Paul
had to take the tube to work; she had insisted on taking the car. Something was
sticking to his shoe, tugging at his attention as he stepped hurriedly out of
the station. A chewing gum had gripped to the left sole. He cursed silently and
made a mental note to scrape it off before he reached his office. Crowds were
pouring in the morning streets, brushing indifferently past him. He found a
corner of a street near a lamppost with a small puddle forming by the sidewalk.
He uncomfortably leaned against the metal and scraped his shoe against the
slippery sidewalk. As he methodologically removed the intruding adhesive, he
noticed his socks, discoloured. She had botched the washing again. What had
gotten into her? The drizzle kept its gentle and constant rhythm.
He
stood up, gazing down the street and looking back into her face that morning.
She looked tired and old. He loved her face, finding comfort into its familiar
accentuated lines but didn’t know how to shake the faint anguish that he had
felt that morning as she picked the keys by the door and waved him goodbye. She
had been so absent-minded lately, so much so that he had tentatively talked to
Rob about it who had shrugged his shoulders as he always did, chewing on a rollie.
God that kid could exasperate him.
As
he negotiated the sidewalk of commuters, he planned the evening meal. He’d make
her his speciality quiche, the only dish he actually knew how to prepare and
made a second mental note to pick up a pair of chocolate cheesecake slices on
the way back home with a bottle of wine. No. Not cheesecake, Gu pots. She loved
the ramekins she carefully washed and collected. He smiled, satisfied at being
able to fulfil his role of a husband.
Paul
belonged to the breed of men who believed themselves lucky and therefore happy.
His friend once called him a clock: steady, regular and predictable. And he
was. Helen’s dark moods made him sad but only when he thought of them; or had
to confront them. He enjoyed reminding himself how fortunate he was. Optimism
was his greatest asset, an imperturbable sense of chance that was cumbersome
only for others who found his lack of worry a surface for stupidity. Paul knew
he had nothing to complain about: he loved his wife, had a steady job he
enjoyed at times and a house paid for. Had he been religious, he would have
been an insufferable zealot handing leaflets with an unnerving smile. The
cosiness of his life was almost a subject of embarrassment. His mates bonded
over discombobulated households and he joined in the laughter but didn’t know
how to partake in their banter. Paul was simple
because life had been kind enough to throw only minor incidents his way,
sparing him the hollowing incidents that bring upon revolutions within our
nature. The crises that had erupted regularly around him had the sheen of
unreality that kept him safe from empathy. He had sympathized though, without
understanding. He refused to delve into the suffering of real or fictional
others. His being rested on the belief that he could insure the happiness of those he loved as well as his
own. Pain, suffering or violence were elements that existed beyond him. To be
grasped, he would have to completely overthrow the cornerstone of his world,
the faith in unwavering luck.
In other words, Paul was a reasonable man with limited
imagination and so far, a simple life.
He
had arrived and he stepped into the lift with a smile.
