If I Wrote a Book ... 2

After this part, I realise that my Slovenian teacher at grammar school was right and that every text needs an outline to round it off:

She has asked herself many times why she doesn't leave. Why she ended up with him in the first place. Why, despite knowing that they had nothing in common, had she persisted with this miserable form of life. Perhaps because he never hurt her. Or because with his demeanour and the fact that he was - not because he was such a good man, but because he simply couldn't do more than simply exist - trustworthy, he was a security to her.

The music at his work party, full of people reminding her that she could have chosen a much worse partner, was set at that uncomfortable volume where it still seems undignified to shout, to lean towards the other person and direct the sound into their ear with your hand, while at the same time she often had to repeat a sentence when speaking politely to the hostess, despite the loud and clearly emphasised words. As usual, she retreated into a corner and watched from a distance: she amused herself by looking for mistakes, for things that showed the true financial situation of his colleagues: a cheaply sewn tie here, a supermarket-bought sushi there - albeit served on artificial clay plates. Thirty-nine minutes and twenty-three mistakes later, she got fed up and walked to the terrace under the pretext of craving a cigarette (she hadn't smoked since her twenty-first birthday). The house must have been bought on credit, or at least inherited, but she doubted the possibility of the latter: someone who had grown up in a really rich family would never have allowed cheap signs like “love rules in this house” and other such nonsense to be put up in the house, which filled her with even more suspicion of the family living there: why did they think it was so important to point out that they loved each other? Suspicious. Anyway, the narrow sea view across dozens of flat brick roofs gave away that the house could not be afforded on the owner's salary alone. It was obvious that the house had been built just before the really rich people started to move in en masse, and that they had blocked the house's formerly probably fascinating ocean view with their boring white cubicle houses. She stepped outside and took a deep breath. Perhaps it was the thought of salt water that made her expect her lungs to be filled with the nostalgic fresh smell of the sea, pine trees and all that goes with it, so the thick smoke billowing from the cigar of the woman next to her surprised her to the point that she couldn't contain herself and coughed rudely. The woman gave her a reproachful look, then leaned back against the railing and blew out the rest of the smoke with an exhalation of frustration.

An argument broke out under the terrace. Neither of the women stuck their necks out to see what was going on. They had learned that it was none of their business, and nothing worse than a few harsh words and maybe a broken glass or two had ever happened. The latter would not be a tragedy in the current climate, as she noticed as soon as she arrived that the wine was served in glasses that were, at best, bought from Ikea and, at worst, ordered online from China. The raised voices soon turned into drunken laughter, and then he came for her: he had drunk only as much alcohol as was necessary according to social expectations. It was time for them to go.