Zero sympathy.

I snap the book shut with a satisfying thud. (In reality, I’m turning off my Kindle, and it’s completely silent.)

-Damn, one should do as Hemingway did. Shoot oneself when the time is right.

-Now? my wife wonders, sipping her Aperol Spritz.

It’s an irritating counter-question, as it’s all about my boundless fishing for validation and affection. But my pride forbids me from showing it, while my consciousness lacks the sense to shut up.

-No, when the moment arrives, I reply with a perfect note that is both melodramatic and nonchalant at the same time. I feel like I’m handling this skillfully.

-Where then? my wife asks.

Here I become a little irritated, I must admit. The whole idea is that she should be appalled that I’m even talking about this, not asking practical questions as if it were about returning a rental car.

-Well, where do you think? The head or the heart seems appropriate?

-I was thinking more about the location. It’s bound to get rather messy.

Good God, is that all she thinks about? Not a word about how she couldn’t live without me, how the loss would consume her, or how she would visit my gravestone every day for the rest of her meaningless life. No, she’s worried about the decor and the cleaning.

-I don’t know, I suppose I’ll have to head out into the woods, I reply a bit coldly.

-So a nursery class can find what’s left of you? my wife wonders, twirling the straw in her red drink.

-Maybe I could crawl into a rubbish bag first? I say constructively. I can certainly play this game too.

-With a loaded shotgun? You’ll accidentally blow off half your face or your entire lower half, and I’m not going to be your carer if that’s what you think.

-Good God, am I going to have to think everything through myself? I say angrily. What would you do then, since you seem to have an answer for everything?

-Well, it’s probably better if I do it when you start getting annoyingly self-pitying.

I pick up “The Old Man and the Sea” again and snort at her. She’s never even held a weapon, has she? At the same time, I sense she’s studying me in a way I don’t recognise. As if I were prey?