Vanished Read Free

her thighs, felt the hair, found the moistness.
    ‘Don’t,’ his wife mumbled and turned away from him.
    He sighed and swallowed, then rolled over on his back; excitement throbbing like a hammer. He folded his hands behind his head and stared up at the ceiling. He listened as her breathing slowed down again. She was never interested these days.
    Annoyed, Thomas threw the cover back and went out into the kitchen naked, his dick a wilting tulip. He drank water from a dirty glass, then put coffee in a filter, filled the coffee maker with water and switched it on. He went to the bathroom and peed. In the bathroom mirror his tousled hair gave him a reckless look that was more in keeping with his age. He sighed and pushed his hair back.
    It’s too early to have a midlife crisis , he thought. Much too early.
    He returned to the kitchen and looked out the window at the sea. It was black and wild. Last night’s storm lingered in the sprays and white horses; the neighbours’ sundial lay overturned next to their terrace door.
    What’s the point? he thought to himself. Why do we go on?
    He was filled with a huge dark melancholy and realized that it verged on self-pity. There was a draught of cold air from the window – damned jerry-built house – so he went and got his dressing gown. A present from his wife last Christmas: green, blue and burgundy, and expensive; slippers to match, which he’d never used.
    The coffee maker started gurgling. He took out a mug with the bank logo and switched on the radio, hitting the Eko news. The news items were filtered through his weariness and coffee, entering his mind at random. Hurricane sweeping through southern Sweden causing considerable damage. Households without electricity. Insurance companies making assurances. Two men dead. Security zone in south Lebanon. Kosovo.
    Thomas switched off, walked out into the hallway and pulled his boots on. He’d get the newspaper from the letter box instead. The wind tore at the bits of paper, found its way in under his dressing gown, chilling his thighs. He stopped short, closed his eyes and breathed. There was ice in the air; the sea would soon freeze over.
    He looked down at their house, the beautiful house her parents had built, designed by an architect. The light was on in the kitchen on the upper floor, the lamp over the table by a designer whose name he’d forgotten. It gave a greenish and cold light – an evil eye watching over the sea. The white tiles were grey in the light of early dawn. His mother had always thought it was the most beautiful house in all of Vaxholm. She had offered to make curtains for all the rooms when they moved in. Eleonor had declined, politely but firmly.
    Thomas went inside. He leafed through all the sections without being able to focus on anything. As usual, he ended up on the ads for houses and flats for sale. ‘Four-bedroom flat in central Vasastan, tiled stove in every room. One-bedroom flat in the Old Town, penthouse w/ raftered ceilings, view in three directions. Timber cottage near Malmköping, electricity and water. Autumn bargain!’
    He could his his wife’s voice: Daydreamer! If you gave the stock market half the attention you give ads for flats, you’d be a millionaire by now.
    She already was.
    He immediately felt ashamed. She meant well. Her love was as firm as a rock. He was the problem. He didn’t have the energy. Maybe she was right in thinking that he couldn’t deal with her success. Maybe they should see that counsellor after all.
    He folded the paper along its original folds – Eleonor didn’t like to read a second-hand newspaper – and put it on the side table that was reserved for post and magazines. Then he went back into the bedroom, slipped out of the dressing gown and crept back into bed. His wife wriggled in her sleep when she felt his cold body. He pulled her up against him and blew into her soft neck.
    ‘I love you,’ he whispered.
    ‘I love you too,’ she murmured.
    Carl