Phoef Sutton

And we were in our thirties. Well into the Age of Boredom, when nothing is new. Now, I__ not being self-pitying; it__ simply true. Newness, or whatever you want to call it, becomes a very scarce commodity after thirty. I think that__ unfair. If I were in charge of the human life span, I__ make sure to budget newness much more selectively, to ration it out. As it is now, it__ almost used up in the first three years of life. By then you__e seen for the first time, tasted for the first time, held something for the first time. Learned to walk, talk, go to the bathroom. What have you got to look forward to that can compare with that? Sure, there__ school. Making friends. Falling in love. Learning to drive. Sex. Learning to trade. That has to carry you for the next twenty-five years. But after that? What__ the new excitement? Mastering your home computer? Figuring out how to work CompuServe? __ow, if it were up to me, I__ parcel out. So that, say, at thirty-five we just learned how to go on the potty. Imagine the feeling of accomplishment! They__ have office parties. "Did you hear? The vice president in charge of overseas development just went a whole week without his diaper. We__e buying him a gift." It__ be beautiful.

She__ not happy in her marriage. Not unhappy exactly, but not happy. He doesn__ want kids, so that__ nothing to look forward to. Her life is chock-full of quiet tedium. Suddenly, she falls in love. And sure, there__ the excitement of being with her lover, but there__ also the excitement of not being with him. Of waiting and going on with her ordinary life. And all that dullness now becomes part of the drama. Because that__ her cover story. All the dreary anguish and monotony that fills ninety-eight percent of her life is electrified with meaning, since it now serves as the perfect camouflage to hide the two percent of passion. And, yes, she felt guilt and, yes, she felt shame. But those are powerful emotions too, and were all part of the glorious transformation of a featureless bland life into an adventure.

...love is always infidelity, isn__ it? Always a betrayal of someone or something. Even with your first girl, when you__e seventeen and living at home, you__e still cheating. Cheating on your parents. Pretending to be a child with them and a man with her. Having to hide the smile on your face and the scent of her on your body. And all that hiding making it so much more precious, so much more exciting. And you__e cheating on your friends too. Pretending you__e still one of the gang, when all you are is her lover and you could care less about any of them. And it doesn__ matter how old you are, or how free you are, you still cheat. A single man with a job in love with a single girl, he__ still unfaithful. He__ cheating every time he drives to work and pretends to go through the old routine, while in his mind he__ really with her, rushing to her, flowing all over her. Just walking down the street, pretending to be a regular human being, he__ betraying all the other human beings around him. Because he__ nothing like them. He__ not walking next to them at all. He__ not even there. He__ with her.