Chapter 2: Paul

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.