Sunday, July 13, 2014
Occasionally I returned to the edge of that man's affairs. The problem of his marriage had become clear to us immediately: she only knew how to depend on him and he had never learned to rely on her for anything. In his present state then - after he arrived where he arrived - she found herself at a loss for ways to be of assistance. All she knew how to do was to bake him cakes, which she did without fail every single week. And all he knew how to do in return was to eat them, the entire thing, in one sitting. He would cut off a slice and then stash the rest under his bed until he was done with what he had and then he would cut himself some more, promising with each additional bit that this would be his last for now until with some sense of desperate resignation he would realize he had finished the whole thing and now felt very sick. Each time one arrived he knew he should share it with those that were with him, and yet at the same time he knew he could not give any away because of what the cake represented to both of them: her love, her perfect love, which he could do nothing but consume.