My soul leaves my body at half time. I’m not sure exactly when it happens, but behind the bar after lunch is my body without angela. A red wine, another jug of Carlton, a champagne in that strawberry; I am mute and barely responsive. Performing monotony. She doesn’t want to be here. To eat, I am offered an egg and I accept, then sit and stare at it. I leave and drive home at sunset and I won’t be coming back.
When will she learn? Can’t be sold.