E Edward Grey: Look, we can’t do this 24 hours a day, 7 days a week.
Lee: Why not?
You don’t think it would be enough.
We are discussing what would happen in the hours after “Honey, I’m home”. A list is made of the trouble we’d cause if we were the ones unlocking the door. On a sunny afternoon in each other’s arms an imagined history is spun as intricate as any biography.
That would be something you say, if life were a dream. You consider my view of domesticity naïve at best. You do not believe two people could sustain this every day. An intensity that does not leave room for god or neighbours, or for tricycles turned over in the yard. Obsession may prevail in moments, yes – but the rest of life is for living.
My parents still slow dance in the kitchen, I defend. A pas de deux in the midst of chaos. It makes the chaos beautiful. Or the dance. Even when there is work to be done. Because not all love is scheduled I say as you look at your watch.
And here the wall goes up. You were raised to follow righteousness, and a book, whilst my parents were dancing barefoot around the dishes – and we can never reconcile the view.
Their legacy is this then. The way you sense something ignoble in my desire – how deep down you find it unseemly. I am too hungry, too selfish and too all-consuming. What good was ever achieved through unbridled lust?
(You have lost hours, days even, over me. When there is work to be done).
And how I find you sanctimonious, restrained and reserved. My patrician puzzle collected in pieces for years. Which made me love you more of course. Your stuffiness and your worried eyes, as if you haven’t quite caught up. Your bow ties and your polite conversation. How I want to rip both of them apart. Every equal and opposite thing about you always leaves me wanting more.
(Leaves me dreaming of “Honey, I’m home”).
You don’t think it would be enough. And for this, tonight, I may love you just a little less.