Home

He realized that it was time to go. When he was at home the hours and days and weeks drifted away. He spent all day doing he remembered not what. It would exhaust him and at night he would find out who was where and go out drinking, and stay out late, until four or five in the morning, until he was sober again, and he could make the long drive home. He loved being home; he imagined he was suffering a terminal disease. The disease made everything easier because there was no hope. It was the kind of suffering that he knew he would long for again the moment it came to an end, like an orgasm. He knew it had to end, which made the suffering stop, but then he wouldn’t leave, which made the suffering go on.