Love Doesn't Work Read Free Page B

banality that almost made him feel sick. The only headline he inadvertently caught before folding it up and hiding it under the table was “Man Eaten by Cat.” He considered what it would be like being eaten by a cat. Surely one would have to actually want to be eaten? Only a debilitated, possibly comatose person would lie still long enough for its tiny jaws to inflict mortal wounds. That must be the answer. The man had a stroke and, after a few days of lying motionless on the floor, the cat started eating him.
    The coffee pot was bubbling and Harold quickly turned it off to avoid any bitter aftertaste. While the milk was heating up he took the newspaper and went to the ceramic-tiled fireplace in the corner of the living room. He opened the little brass doors, stuffed the newspaper inside, then put a match to it.
    Linda smelt the smoke. “What are you doing?” she called out.
    “I’m burning the newspaper.”
    “Why? I haven’t read it yet.”
    “Don’t.”
    Linda stood in the doorway, looking at him strangely. “Why shouldn’t I read the newspaper?”
    “Newspapers create an image of life that’s not only false but evil,” said Harold. “They waste our time; stop us from thinking; lull us into a false sense of security.”
    He went back into the kitchen, boiled the milk and poured himself a nice café latte. “Do you want coffee?” he called out.
    “I’m not drinking coffee.”
    “Why not?”
    “It makes you less fertile.”
    Oddly enough, sitting there looking out of the window at the bored people walking along the river with their dogs, stopping to say hello to other bored people, fumbling for something to say, he wanted nothing but to open the now-burnt newspaper and sit there with his coffee, reading a pack of lies about how all this was normal.
    Linda walked into the kitchen. “Are you having a bath?”
    “No. I’m tired.”
    “I’m going to bed,” she said.
    Harold looked at the kitchen clock and realized with a shock that it was ten-thirty at night. It had taken him four hours to get home from work and have a cup of coffee.
     
    III
    The next morning, Harold woke up with a sense of purpose. Linda lay demonstratively with her back to him even though she was awake. He ignored her, got up, showered, shaved; then after breakfasting on yogurt, sliced apple, pumpernickel bread with hard Austrian cheese and pickled gherkins, he brought Linda breakfast in bed on the pretty, floral-patterned tray they had bought in Florence.
    He knew what she liked when she was down: a slice of cake, a cup of herbal tea and a lit candle.
    He sat by her side for a while. She tried not to show that she was pleased.
    “Aren’t you going to work?” he said.
    “I’ve got a pain,” she said. “In my stomach. I think I better stay at home, rest a bit. What about you? You’re going to be late.”
    “I’m taking the day off. Going fishing.”
    “You never take a day off work, Harold. You never go fishing.”
    “I’m not really going fishing.”
    She munched her cake and looked at him. “Would you mind telling me what’s going on? In your head, I mean?”
    “Linda, I don’t know quite how to put this, but… I’ve found a hole in the pavement and it’s really bothering me. I think someone could fall into it.”
    “I didn’t know you were so interested in road works.”
    “It’s nothing to joke about, Linda. It’s a deep hole, incredibly deep. It could be lethal.”
    “For God’s sake! Don’t you have more important things to worry about?”
    He stood up. “I’m going to find out how deep it is, then report it to the City Council. I have to be responsible. If I don’t do this, someone could get hurt.”
    “I’m the one who’s hurt, Harold. I’m very hurt.”
    “At least you haven’t fallen down a hole,” said Harold, standing up and giving her a quick peck on the cheek before slipping out.
    In the hall, he took his telescopic fishing rod, the fishing reel and the small box of tackle. He