The Film Club – David Gilmour
Several years went by, I was leaving my bank one afternoon in an underground mall when I run into her at the foot of the escalator. Time had lengthened her face and she looked slightly haggard. An unhappy love affair, I hoped. I tried again. We had a few dates here and there, and then one evening, walking home from somewhere, I looked over at her silhouette and thought, I must marry this woman. It was as if some mechanism for self preservation clicked on, like a furnace on a cold night. Marry this woman, it said, and you will die happily.
You never get anything worth getting from an asshole.
For six months, maybe a year, I’ve forgotten, I had felt her absence with the acuity of a toothache. We had committed such middle-of-the-night intimacies, she and I, private things said, private things done, and now the two of us sat unspeaking on the same subway train. Which would have struck me as tragic when I was younger but now seemed, I don’t know, rather ruefully true to life. Not fantastic or sad or obscene or hilarious, just sort of business as usual, the mystery of someone coming and going in your life not so mysterious after all.
And then, like that, he was gone. I thought, well, he’s nineteen, that’s the way it goes. At least he knows that Michael Curtiz shot two endings for Casablanca in case the sad one didn’t work out. That’s bound to help him out there in the world. Can’t ever be said now that I sent forth my son defenceless.