He said something offputting and she couldn't get it out of her head, not for lack of trying. When she asked him why he did it, why he forgot what this felt like the last time, his face was vacant of emotion and there was no hesitation in his voice.
"It's the truth. It's not an excuse. It's an explanation," he said.
"Sometimes I think this is a science to you and sometimes I think you develop amnesia when you do something to the left of the compass," I announced.
"The compass?"
"The ethical compass. Do you feel anything when you say that to me?"
"When I say what?"
"When you make an excuse for an excuse," I barked. "That's what this has always been."
"I don't know that I agree with that," he said.
She was exhausted by him. For the first time in their marriage, she felt the pangs of waste, and of regret. She had the generic fear of regret, made generic by the fact that we all have it. But this time it was different. It was claustrophobic and she felt that if she heard one more pragmatic word out of his fucking mouth, she would need to off herself the way they did in the Hudsucker Proxy. Something dramatic, some profound and acrobatic death that people would talk about for decades to come.
Because then they would call her fearless. Then they wouldn't feel sorry for her. They wouldn't make excuses for her. But they would remember her. That, they would do.
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