In vain, my mother spoke with higher intonation, with more gestures to substitute such sight. She turned to my father, who immediately ordered another bottle of red wine. Next he ordered plates of cheese and various meats.
The old man sat in the corner to escape observance.
He blamed himself, especially his cowardice, for causing the pale color of his skin the night he considered suicide and then a real sickness overcame him the following morning and ever since, the concept of recovery existed only in abstractions.
"I love you," His wife would say, uncertain. " I love you because you're mine"
" If I wasn't yours, you would love another who proclaimed loyalty"
" I'd love you more if you weren't loyal, I'm sure of it" And she was.
His job, his wife, his children- required no reparations. His life, at 43, symbolized a flowing river in the middle of the desert. Ten years ago, he had been a happy man.
The night of the attempted suicide, he drove to the local market for vegetables and turkey. Once home, he grabbed the kitchen knife and began preparing what he believed would be his last meal. He liked cooking. The act pacified his feelings; his favorite recipes involved long hours.
"I will kill myself tonight because I haven't felt this brave before"
He had walked into the tavern with a secret determination: to defeat the imagined belief that his life could improve, that he hadn't missed a major turning point, that life was essentially and undeniably a process of survival.
