"...what happened at the library?”
“There was this old girl. At the front desk. I had to wait in line behind her because the stuff I wanted was in the archives.
“And, uh, I suppose she must've been a regular. The librarian asked her how she was doing. And she said, oh well, fine. Just fine. And then she started talking about her husband. She'd just lost her husband. And she said she was carrying on most of the time like nothing had happened except she kept having to tell people. The phone company, the gas, the electric–everyone. And she said that was the time she'd feel it. Her voice would crack every time. My husband died. My husband died.”
“How did that make you feel? Hearing that lady talking about her loss.”
“Well, it made me kinda mad actually, because she was holding up the line. No, sorry. See? I try to talk about this crap and just start goofing around first chance I get.”
“Lots of people use humour to help them get through life, Dean.”
“Yeah. Humour. Stupid jokes or a lethal weapon. My go-to, tried-and-tested methods.”
“You’re here, though, aren’t you?”
“Yeah, I'm here. I'm here.”
“Do you have more to say? About the library?”
“Yeah. Yeah. The old girl who'd lost her old man. She must've been eighty, eighty five maybe.
“What did you feel, Dean?”
“God. Fuck. I dunno. Yes, I do. I do know. Jealous. I was jealous. I was so jealous of that woman I wanted to fall down and cry and scream and tear the carpet up with my bare hands, with my teeth. Jesus fucking Christ I was so torn up, torn apart, standing there in that neat and tidy place with all those neat and tidy people and all the books put back exactly where they should go. I was steaming full of it. Burning with it.
“I'll tell you why. Give me a minute. Just- just a minute.
“I had to take a minute then. I had to come out of the line and duck into the nearest bathroom, splash my face with cold water. I looked at myself in the mirror. God, I was a wreck.
“Anyway, yeah. You know, it's still there? That envy? Inside of me. It’s always there. Smouldering away.
“Huh. I guess it's not hard for you to see how messed up I am. Look at the fucking state of me--my nails digging holes in the edge of this fucking chair.
“So, anyhow–deep breath, Dean–jealousy.
“Firstly, because she'd been married sixty two years. The librarian asked her and she said sixty two years. Sixty two years we were married, my Nathan and me. Sixty two years.”
“You’re damn fucking right that's a long time. Sixty two years she got with the love of her life. Sixty two years of waking up next to him each day, sixty two years to look into his eyes and say everything she wanted to say, sixty two years to spend time together, to raise a family, to laugh, to cry, to fight, to make up. All those years. All those long years.”
“And you didn't have that.”
“No. No, I didn't have that. We didn't have that. But also, she gets to talk about it. She gets to tell people and they know what to say and how to act. She gets to phone up the electricity company and tell them and the insurance people and tell them. She gets to say it over and over and even though it hurts to say it, she gets that.”
“You don't feel you can tell people?”
“Tell them what? Tell them my best friend died? It's not the same.”
“You don't think people would understand.”
“Why would they? It's not like saying my husband died is it? My best friend. Yeah, he was that. But he was so much more than that, and I didn't even- I didn't even-”
“I didn't know. I didn’t think. I knew he meant a lot but I didn't put it into words, even to myself, definitely not to him. He told me he loved me. He loved me. And I said nothing. Nothing that meant anything. And then he was gone.”
“Yes, I loved him. Of course I loved him. I've loved him for years. For years. Through everything.
“I don’t know… I just wish… No. I don’t know. I don’t know what I want. I couldn't be like the old lady, chatting about it in the library, or with a store owner or whatever. I'm just jealous of the way she can say it and get that… understanding, I guess. Sympathy.”
“But you couldn't be like her?”
“No. No way. I'd scream in their faces. I'd grab them by the collar and haul them over the desk and yell: He loved me. He fucking loved me and I fucking lost him.”
