THE MAN WHO WOULD NOT BREATHE
A man half way through his life is asked by his wife if he loves her. He cannot answer. He does not know the answer, even though she demands to know it. All he can say is
“I would die before you now if you want it. Do you want it?”
And now she cannot answer, even though he demands to know it.
“I will hold my breath until you answer,”
says he, and he does so.
And still she does not answer. She cannot answer, is afraid to dwell on the subject, so changes the subject to another. Something mundane, she says, and he agrees, or disagrees, with words, or without; and ten years pass without him taking a breath of air, inwards or otherwise.
On some anniversary she says to him,
“Years ago you died for me, I know it now. Was that because you loved me or because you didn’t?”
“I could not say,”
says he with a sigh. A deep deep sigh stuffed with oxygen and smoke, for he breathes again.
“I could not say then; I can hardly say now. I thought long and hard, and believed I would never know the answer…"
(unfinished)
