She has a recurrent fantasy of being at his place with his wife, the tears started from their eyelids.
Rocking with laughter, clutching a cushion each, and burying the head in them,
Having consumed in the extracurricular afternoon Cabernet Sauvignon and weed,
When he, fresh from his phallic triumph of getting the key in the door, comes in to catch them at it.
—What’s so funny?
MH, you know, he got killed by a pig falling on him, Dramatic, non?
It’s an old one, but a good one. The nature of comedy.
He is quite annoyed with his Wife, because he has come home to find the beds not made, and his dinner not on the table, and while she has a part time job, this had turned him into a old-fashioned – somehow.
She is wont to destroy her time in the demotic way, staring at images of colonial types bludgeoned in tweed hunting suits, with the blood touching the Turkish carpet,
Let alone the Journalist being there.
How do you two know each other: they acted as if they’d been friends for years,
And the nature of the funniest thing,
Neck broken by the inertia, momentum, he could explain it all, and that
Just going along the street, took a hit from a pig – and this set them off again
We don’t really live anywhere in the civilised world don’t have pigs upstairs where they can fall on people,
I don’t believe it, but it’s happened, sometimes things do,
She and his wife, found out that they were connected, they get on great together, lots in common,
The nature of humour,
His wife, it was there to be known, often had a snort, when abandoned and at ease that came out like a pig’s oink, when he said something really funny, usually mocking,
After the door closes behind her:
His wife is in the kitchen dropping eggs on the floor, the pools of albumen, with bare feet squeaking on laminate, still with occasional resurgent tittering,
The fridge door swung wide, cold but fulgent to the world,
Infertile but tasty.
He sits down and imagines what it would be like if she really had been there. Imagining for example, that he might go upstairs and find a note on the bathroom mirror, very prominent: Bride, control thy Husband.
The scrawl bites him as he stares at it. He can next wonder whether his wife has already seen it
— carefully assuming she, his wife, was not the author —
Should he scrunch it to nothing, much as he habitually did with Big Problems?
— still there, but nothing to see —
Then left with the had she/hadn’t she seen it, left it, is testing him…
— a very little problem compared with the arrival of his luvva, breaking up their happy home, their children, if there were any, sent to the poorhouse to be waifs…
But as he comes down again, she was still ditzily dropping eggs drunkenly,
And she could know that he knew she knew he has whipped it away from sight,
and all the tensions of that. Which lies unsaid between them, but would come.