Her husband only loves her when she is sad and depressed, which she is enough of the times for many others to think that she is a sad and depressed woman.
When she is not sad and depressed she does not notice her husband, herself looking to everything or everyone other than he for her diversions.
She only needs him, she would say (as you might hear her say, as others would hear her say, whenever someone could catch her talking aloud to herself, which she does not do often enough for this catching her to be more than just a possibility, a remote one at that [so why then the aside, the insertion in parentheses?]), if she were to think about this, which she is never going to do, when I am sad.
To be sad or not to be sad has not become her to be or not moment. She is and that is enough for her—she does not question her sadness, except she does blame others around her for her sadness, her unhappiness. It has always been quite simple for her: the origin of her unhappiness is only a moment away, seizing the idea that others want nothing more than to see her unhappy, that others close to her conspire to make her unhappy, or keep her unhappy, the latter being as close to self-knowledge as she comes.
She only wants him around to berate or belittle as she does every day without her being aware enough or strong enough or secure enough to admit that that is exactly what she does every day; yes, day in and day in again and again and again, over and over ten times at least every day or more, sometimes ten times in an hour, for sure he is, out of her mouth, asshole, piece of shit, idiot, disgusting, everything her mother said, has said and sometimes continues to say to her; a martyr she becomes in a self-aggrandized image of herself, what she needs as antidote to the poison .. . something contrary to the polarized image she carries with her into the pit, the hole, the abyss of her soul. Everything in there is black. No one would want to be her; no one she has ever known has ever envied her.
He does not mind her diversionary tactics at times; she has had a special dispensation for denial. He really can’t stand that she can’t stand when she is happy;it makes her uncomfortable, like being in strange surroundings. He only likes her enough to tolerate her when she is sad and depressed. He can only show love for the woman she is when she is happy, but sad and depressed what she is most comfortable with, most familiar with, her mother being nothing she has ever imagined her to be, or says to others, only wonderful . . . like the parent who tells everyone he meets how brilliant his idiot son is, never the word idiot passing his lips, no longer in his head, this imaginary parent of a kind that has to lie to himself because every one like him he surrounds himself with has this penchant for lying, lying, lying; that’s all they ever do, wear masks on masks, the masks every human wears by nature . . .yes, human nature . . . but then masks on masks, which is why everyone who has ever dealt with people like this has determined that people like this are two-faced.
This way she has of turning every opportunity to be happy into misery is the only way she is happy. Really, she is . . . this is already too much for a person that most people who know now will forget in time.
He too is happy, you could say, he would say at the end of his life with her that we are not going to get to, no. Why should you imagine that you need anymore than what you have been given, when, as others too have said, another me and another me and another me, each of us coming to the last syllable of his recorded speech . . . yes, when the author too has said many times: There is nothing outside the text. Of course, Beyond this point, there be dragons.
Post Script: Happy people aren’t worth the trouble to write about them.
Post-post Script: I have always loved maps and the idea of map-making, charting the world. So did he when he was a boy; many atlases and maps on his bedroom walls; he used to love running his tongue all over her body, her flesh, that skin he used to say he loved the taste of, a full mouth of her cunt too in the morning, who does not prefer sex in the morning to the night, how every day he used to imagine guiding his tongue, tracing her skin, a new kind of topography?