Yet, still standing there, he watched her chewing her food. With him standing over her and looking down at her, she got the creeps. She gave him a little smile before a look of sadness crossed her face that he dared remind her that today was Valentine’s Day, the day of love, and that was now just another day of heartache and loneliness to her. He reminded her that she was alone with no one there to help her, to love her, and to wish her a Happy Valentine’s Day but for this strange stranger. Suddenly a barrage of all of the Valentine’s Days she ever had flashed through her mind as if a video on superfast speed. Being that this was her personal and private Valentine’s Day celebration, she knew it was Valentine’s Day but for a strange man to remind her of the holiday by wishing her a Happy Valentine’s Day didn’t sit right with her. Always being bothered and hassled by strange men when collecting cans and bottles in back alleys, she didn’t want to be bothered by yet another strange man. When she was at home, she was always exhausted. She never refused me sex, but it was no better than necrophilia, and gradually I stopped bothering. I deeply regretted selling the house in Tiburon because I would have surely gone there. I doubt very much that separation would have shocked her into change, and divorce would have inevitably followed. I find myself wondering if that might have been best. But such thinking is futile. I did sell the house. I did stay in Cambridge. And we did stay together, if peculiarly. My life become one of memory and fantasy. Memories of days, nights, experiences, with Julie and Anne, and other women, some of whose names I could not even remember, some of whom I was surprised to realize I had known twenty or thirty years earlier, were incomparably more vivid than Lynn’s infrequent, wraithlike presence. I masturbated to those memories considerably more than I had sex with my wife. And I masturbated to rented videos, seeking out those which featured.
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