My wife says she is too tired to go to a?movie with me. She is lying on the?sofa with one eye on the television, looking wan.
"Go without me," she says.
"I don't go to movies by myself," I?say. "Get up."
"Take one of the children, then."
"I very much doubt any of them will want to see it."
"I'm so tired," she says.
I find the oldest one in the kitchen, standing before the open fridge. "There's no food," he says.
"So: you, me," I say, quickly. "Behind The Candelabra, 3.40pm. I'll book tickets, yeah?"
He frowns speculatively. "What's it about?" he says.
"It's about a lot of things," I say.
"Wait, is that the Liberace movie?" He is wary of parental film selection, ever since his mother accidentally took him to see We Need To Talk About Kevin.
"It's been very well reviewed," I?say.
"I'm good, thanks," he says.
I return to the sitting room. "There's no food," I say. "If we went to the 3.40, we could pick up supper on the way back."
"We're going out," she says. "I told you." Suddenly it is my turn to feel tired. I decide not to let my surprise show. We both stare at the television in silence for a while.
"You know you're watching Sky Sports News, don't you?"
"I can't find the thing," she says. "Can you find the thing?"
At 7pm, my wife rises from the sofa and we go out. Our evening has?been arranged to be as non-taxing as?possible: a meal at an Indian restaurant with our friends Sarah and Aaron, then home. In the?restaurant, my wife rallies, invigorated by the prospect of over-ordering. Tiredness envelops me like a cloak, but after two beers it is?alarming how charming I feel. I?describe how sharper than a serpent's tooth it is to have a child who won't go to see Behind The Candelabra with you in the middle of the afternoon.
Afterwards, as we walk down the?road, it is rather pleasant to feel at once both sated and exhausted. We?stop at the corner in front of Sarah and Aaron's house to say goodbye.
"That was really, really nice," my wife says, pausing to kiss Sarah on one cheek, then the other. "We should do it again soon."
She moves to kiss Aaron on both cheeks. "And I'll call you," she says, "about next week..."
My wife turns and stands in front of me, taking hold of both my shoulders. "It was really good to see?you," she says, kissing me on one cheek. "And next time..." She?kisses me on the other cheek. "We'll have to..."
"Um," I say. "I think I'm coming with you."
She leans back and stares at me. "Oh Christ," she says.
"That was weird," Aaron says.
"It's dark," my wife says. "I told you I was tired."
"I don't get who I'm supposed to be," I say.
"Come on," my wife says, grabbing my wrist. "Let's go."
On the way home, I think about the incident. On the one hand, the experience of being treated like a mere acquaintance by one's spouse is mildly horrifying. On the other hand, the distance implied by such a?casual and unselfconscious show of affection is a little thrilling. The more I think about it, the more I find it to be one of the oddest things ever?to happen to me. For a brief moment, I don't know what to do with my feelings.
"Oh God," my wife says. "I can see?the column now."
Ah, yes, I think.
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