The Mill: A Winter Pastoral (17)

Killing Time is Murder

Raymond and Paul called from Vancouver during dinner to say for the sixth time that they were leaving for Japan. I hate them with a furious boredom. I want to punch, cut, chop. I feel tall in my boots and stompy. I stare at my fists and forearms. I’m reading an intelligent bitchy book about intelligent bitchy people by an intelligent bitchy author–adultery the theme. I can tell how much J. resents my breaking off the affair, that she’s frustrated, that I cant satisfy her. The woman I knew while he was here–awakened, threatening, magnificent–has retreated behind a mask of resigned drudgery. The baby, the farm and I seem to mean to her what the Mill means to me.

I need love. I need love. I need love.

graveyard shift

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