That's a good one: if by lonely you mean missing sex, which isn't the first denotation of that word I'd put in the Webster but to your credit I had a lady once who would pick terrible fights by saying I miss you as if I wasn't lying right there—if that's what you mean, it doesn't come up as often as you'd think. Obviously you can want to get maudlin about it, which is when you stoop to repeating the same couple of bromides, the oh I wish we were together, I wish I could fiddle with your bits nonsense, but listen: I developed an exercise. Whenever you want to say it's so unfair, I crave to be up in your sticky hole and whatnot, imagine the reason you aren't is not the tyranny of oceans but a secret distance known only to her. Imagine the gauge approaches infinity in the breast of some horrible dense fucking star. Imagine you live together. Do you think any of that slippery clunge business will vouchsafe you a root? So you drop it, and spare everyone the embarrassment.
No, I like talking about it. Here's another one: if you're not careful, it's just as lonely when you get it. I read a letter once, when wives used to write in to the magazines. The missus of this poor bastard used to tool around with her maths teacher, a very wide bowl these days, and he drove her bananas with the smack of his slide rule. Whenever she rooted hubby, so immersed was she in remembrance that she could not recall at the time of writing what her dearly beloved's custard chucker felt like. Scarred me for years, that letter. Who wants to think about that when they're trying to rub one out? But it puts things in perspective: if she's just doing her thing anyway, then I might as well do mine, which I've been doing for a bloody long time without my hand being held. Present company exempt, of course. No doubt your missus only thinks about you.
Husband, missus, he, she, it. String me up just for speaking. I'm sorry. The thing is that I'm on your side—let a million blossoms bloom, the great man said. But if it doesn't matter, which it doesn't, why make me feel like a cunt about it? If it's all the same love, which it assuredly is, then can't you nod your head when I talk without getting pissy on the semantics? Though frankly that's the element I don't get. The meaty stuff is trivial; before every man drove around in his own little room, I reckon we were all flinging each other's Hellmann's into the bonfire. Even where the arsehole is concerned—no, listen, you prick—what I'm saying is you'd get very bored in the longhouse, and someone's bound to give it a crack eventually. But the idea of—
Alright, look. I enjoy this sort of thing, okay? What we're doing right now is what blokes are for. The sloppy confessions, leaden sinkers that get you excommunicated from the circle of mates—those are what the the old lady gets, for her sins, even though she lives in another country and I don't type very well. If you could do that with men, even the ones who've watched you shit yourself and stuck around after you kicked the hard stuff, then how would you know to value the other thing? Conversely, where would you retreat from all the yapping? You must have it all worked out, of course. More power to you, but not for me.
Not that I get much yap from her. For God's sake don't misconstrue that as a complaint. It's just hard to feel like a man when you're the only one ventilating. I went ballistic the other week, it shames me to say, over a photo of another man's arm draped around her. I wasn’t even jealous, if you can believe it. With women I could touch, who knew the same men I knew, I could be a real green-eyed bastard. I only did it to provoke some emotion, some kind of passionate engagement, even if I had to apologise afterwards. She didn't give me that. She only beat me to the punch with her own sorries, like a hit dog. I don't know. I suppose there are worse things.
Oh, would you? I'd offer to split it with you, but this fortnight's disability is earmarked for her. It's hard to scrape by, you know, in that part of the world. But you'd never think it to look at her: see that polished smile, the flawless toffee skin. See her glitter in the hotel pool, the only person swimming, like a supermodel in that crazy bathing suit. A man like me couldn't pay to know a girl like that. It's funny—you live a life in animal pursuit, chasing a mirage down so many dead alleys, and once you age out of the chase it appears before you all at once. It makes you wonder why you bothered. Makes you want your money back.