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Work was busy, and apparently so was my wife. Somehow, while we'd both been focused on our careers, our shared domestic duties, sleep patterns, nightly television, or books, or separate long walks or runs, we'd stopped having sex completely.

One Sunday morning, as the sun burst through the thin curtains and splashed across our bed and illuminated our bedroom, I reached over and hugged her, pushing my dick into her backside. She mumbled something about needing the bathroom, then slid out of bed, leaving me to realise that this had been happening a lot.

I hoped she'd return, but she didn't. Without looking at me, she smiled and said she was making coffee, put a robe on and went off.

When had my wife started wearing a singlet and panties to bed?

My heart sank and I panicked. Did she know?

For a while I lay in bed, I tried to think about our relationship, and where things had gone wrong, but all I could remember was that my wife and I had transitioned to friends.

We were the best of friends, there was no arguing that, but somewhere along the way, we stopped being lovers.

I got up, and went to the kitchen naked.

She took one look at my cock, and turned away, and said. "Put some clothes on!"

Walking up to the counter, I put my hands on it and watched her. "Because my nudity disgusts you?"

She froze, and slowly turned to look back at me. Her expression was that of someone who's conflicted. "What?"

But the coffee machine kicked in and the coffee started spurting out into the cup she'd prepared.

"Can we talk?"

I was feeling brave, but we needed to have this chat and find out what was going on.

"Oh honey, let's do this later. I need to go catch up with my sister, we're going to the..."

"...going to the where?" I asked, rounding the counter towards her, arms folded and realising that things were worse than they seemed.

"...markets..." she threw in, while busying with the coffee.

Each time I tried to engage her, she moved to give me the coffee, then make herself one, then grabbed her phone, then moved away to the lounge and sat, deep into her phone.

I tried to engage her several times but she either brushed me off or blanked me completely.

Even though I felt panicked, I showered, changed, and left the house. I drove for a while, trying to clear my head, then realised I needed to run. So I got out of the car, and ran at a random park that was on the perimeter of some nice woods.

Through that day, I messaged her a couple of times, and for the first time, I realised her messages were abrupt or short, and always ended with little kisses, but they seemed automated and designed to cut off further conversation.

That had been going for a while, but I had been too busy hiding my indiscretions to realise we'd drifted this far apart.

"I love you," I text her back, and when she gave me a simple little, "x," my heart went cold.

That night, we watched a movie, and I massaged her feet, but her attention wasn't on me.

The more I tried to get closer to her, the more she seemed to drift away from me.

I began to notice our sleeping patterns, and how she was practically slept on the edge at her end, and usually moved her feet away a few seconds after mine found them, or how in the night I'd reach out and touch her, and she'd roll over, flinging my arm off her.

Each action drove spears through my heart, and each spear was accompanied by a feeling I'd come to know really well.

Guilt.

This was all my fault. I'd caused all of this.

And then my life completely fell apart.

That following Friday, I'd gone in to the office for meetings, and two drinks after work with a colleague. My life at this point was spiralling into a dark place because I knew something was wrong and I didn't know how to fix it. Even as I sat with my work colleague I normally bantered with over beers, and usually laughed so hard we got gut-ache, I wallowed in my own self-pity. He noticed it and commented on it, and when we left, it was with an awkwardness neither of us had ever experienced.

He gave me a quick confused glance before he fled to his car and his weekend.

I messaged Helena to let her know I'd be home around 8, and she didn't respond. I tried to call her, and her phone was switched off.

When I got home, I saw the note on the kitchen counter with a bottle of my favourite wine.

"I'm sorry. x."

I dropped to the floor and felt my world heave around me. Then I ran to the bedroom, and realised instantly she'd packed.

All her things were gone.

That heavy, cold blanket that descended on me carried with it the memories of my wife. It was as if it needed to ensure I experienced every moment with clarity, that I understood the ramifications of her leaving me, and that I should recall every wonderful, happy moment we'd shared together.

As I clutched that note, as though within it I could pray her back, and her scent surrounded me, and her smile, and that wonderful glint when she was being cheeky appeared in my mind, and images of when she laughed at stupid things only I also found funny managed to ingrain themselves into my vision.

I cried -- no, I sobbed. Heavy, wracking sobs that shook me. At some point I slid on the tiles and lay on the floor, and cried, and begged to an empty kitchen for her to come back, as I clutched the note.

Occasionally, I'd call her again, I'd text her, and cry some more, all the while her response was the same it had been for weeks.

Silent.

Somehow I slept a couple hours, and woke up with a feeling like a hangover, and a headache, and sore back from the cold tiles. I roamed the small house, I turned the television on, I gazed pointlessly at the contents of my fridge, knowing full well I'd probably never have an appetite again, and cried some more.

When I stood facing my open fridge, I cried. Not because the contents distressed me, but because Helena and I hand-picked each of the items in there and usually conferred with what to do with them.

Vivek called me.

"Hey Rog, how you doing?"

I sobbed, and told him Helena had left me.

I heard him sigh, then he said. "I know mate. Marianne told me."

"Wait! What? Where is she? Is she with you guys?" The fog temporarily lifted with a dash of hope.

He took a deep breath. "No mate. She's staying with...a friend, I believe. Listen, do you want to come here and hang with us? Or we could come to you?"

I shook my head. "No. I'm not good company mate."

Perhaps he hung up, or I did, or the battery died, but I left the phone on the counter by the fridge and moved to the couch.

The pain was real, and I found it increasingly more difficult to breathe.

A knock on the door scared the shit out of me and I bolted from the couch with optimism.

Why would she knock when she had keys?

But I opened the door, hoping -- no, praying to see her standing there.

Vivek with a bottle of wine and a bottle of scotch, along with a box from our favourite Indian restaurant.

Seeing the box made me sob immediately, given it was a regular treat for us on a weekend.

He guided me to the lounge and sat me down, put a plate filled with hot, delicious-smelling food in front of me and a large, generous portioned glass of red wine next to it before sitting next to me with an equally portioned glass of wine in his own hand.

We didn't toast to anything, I guess the situation was too bleak.

I cried, and Vivek sat next to me. He went through his wine as though he needed it more than I did. Perhaps he was thinking that he was glad it was me and not him. But I avoided his eyes, because in them I could see my reflection more clearly than was good for me at that time.

When I picked at the food, I sobbed. Vivek isn't much of a comforter, but he lightly punched my arm once or twice, or tapped my leg, or picked up my wine glass and put it in my hand.

Alcohol does numb the pain, so I drank a lot of it. When the wine was finished, we found ice and opened the scotch and chatted.

Vivek recalled his heartbreak in university, and I remember him going through it. Yeah he cried a bit, for a few days, but we also drank a lot and focused on things that seemed incredibly important at the time. The conversation reminded me that I'd never really experienced heart break.

At some point Vivek left and I passed out.

I must have slept like a baby because I woke up about 9 hours later with a slight hangover and famished.

Once I ate, tidied up a bit, I returned to the couch where I resumed crying.

When I called in with a sudden need for a week off that following Monday, my boss seemed a bit awkward, and pressed for details. I didn't really want to tell him that Helena had left me, and that I hadn't been able to get a hold of her all weekend, but found myself blurting it out.

Omar knew Helena fairly well, through a variety of work-related social functions and outside work leisure activities, so I wasn't surprised to hear his sharp intake of breath and a fairly long pause.

"Fuck...Rog! I'm so sorry mate....um, listen, you take as long as you need...I mean..." it went on a little bit, and while I appreciated the support, I told him I needed some time alone and quickly hung up.

I hadn't planned to spend the week doing very little, but Monday swung into Tuesday, which collided with Wednesday uneventfully. Food was largely untouched, all alcohol in the house began to evaporate and the couch became my bed.

On Thursday, I woke up to a forecast of high temperatures and a desperate need to leave the house.

I walked.

And walked.

Somehow I wandered through the shopping centre, aimlessly through various shops, picking up the odd item, and returning it without having registered what it was.

Retail therapy works. I purchased a new pair of jeans, a new pair of trainers, several new tops and some socks.

When I got home, I threw the bags into the closet and returned to my full-time job of crying.

When I took a second week off work, Omar reiterated that it wasn't a problem, but I told him that I may log in and do some work remotely if I had the inclination. He said he'd send me some work he needed someone to check over, but stressed that it wasn't urgent.

That Friday night, after ordering Vietnamese takeaway from a restaurant I'd never heard of from across town, with a newly restocked alcohol cabinet, I drank wine and logged in and looked at Omar's files.

Somehow, during my hiatus from work, I'd forgotten that I'd had some urgent and rather important meetings the previous week and that Omar had stepped in and acted on my behalf. With a workload that is neverendingly heavy, I felt almost as much guilt as I did towards Helena.

Omar had said that none of it was urgent, but that was an outright lie. It was all well and truly overdue.

By Saturday 10.am. I'd caught up on my emails and took everything off Omar, before collapsing on the couch. I'd somehow converted my couch into a temporary bedroom, by moving bedding and pillows there and moving the television so I could watch my streaming networks comfortably. I slept through the day, woke up, drank some more, did some more work until exhaustion overwhelmed me.

My daily routine would change, but I essentially worked, slept, tried to call Helena, stalked all her friends on social media for clues to her whereabouts, called her friends, her sister, her brother, got lied to a bunch of times, and finally returned to the business of crying.

Two weeks later, I woke up with a new-found resolve to stop being a dickhead and get back to my life. I returned to work, and got pulled straight into a meeting with Omar.

The slight man, probably twice my age and twice my weight wore a turban and a big smile. "I missed you. Thank you for doing all that extra work. I think you've done half the team's work over the past week alone!" he genuinely looked pleased.

"It's okay, I'm sorry I took so much time off, but I'm much better now."

That conversation told me two things, and that was that Omar was a big fan of my work ethic and that he also thought I looked like shit. He didn't need to say that I looked terrible, but I got clues. The way he checked out my clothing when I looked away, that little half-smile he gave me when I said I was totally fine, but the word `fine' coming out a little choked, and him looking like he would rush over and hug me. Which I'm glad he didn't because that would have been a whole new level of awkward.

There was also the suggestion that I didn't need to meet with any of the clients and that our junior guys could do that, and I could continue to work from home as much as I wanted.

I took the hint and suggested I'd predominantly work from home and come into the office when I felt stable and well enough. When he mentioned that I didn't need to worry about the clients, I had an urge to yell out that the message had been received loud and clear.

Three weeks after Helena left me, I got a message from Jackson. His message was always tentative, like he was testing the waters, and polite and discrete, like if someone read the message, they'd simply see a guy asking another guy how he was getting on.

I surprised myself and messaged him back, telling him my wife had left me and that I'd been in a really bad place, but I'd be in touch soon.

My expectation was that Jackson would respect this and leave it at that. But Jackson does not play by any rule book I'm aware of.

He rang me.

I'm one of those people who thinks the call feature on phones is old-fashioned and unnecessary. I like messages, and social media, because it's the era that I've been born into and one that I understand. When my phone rings, I stare at it in shock, assuming there's an emergency.

When Jackson rang me, I was halfway through my second glass of wine, a dozen emails into a new project and two slices of pizza down, with several cold slices waiting patiently.

The fact that Jackson called me surprised me only marginally less than the fact that I answered the call. Let's call it an impulse thing, but as I answered it, I smiled. Probably for the first time in weeks.

"You, my wife...well, yeah...Helena, and my mother are the only people who've called me this year Jackson," I started, "and one of those has apparently got a new phone number that I'm not aware of."

"I'm not sure I get your point. But anyway...hello Roger. How you doing?"

"Fucking fantastic, next question?"

"Fancy a drink?"

"No. Next question?"

"Fuck you. What's your address."

"No. I don't need company. I don't fancy company. Not gonna lie, I'm not in a great place. Trying to keep busy with work, and..."

"I didn't ask for your sob story Rog...we've all got one, I asked for your address. Don't worry, I'm not going to try and get into your pants, I'm bringing drinks and a good ear."

I didn't need to think about it. "I'm okay, thank you for the offer. I have plenty of alcohol, and as I said, I need some time to gather my thoughts and process things..."

"...again, didn't ask for your life story or your problems over the phone. I took the time to call you, so therefore, you take the time to invite me over and I do what good friends do, and that's help you move forward. Break-ups are really hard. There's a good chance I'm going to go through one myself soon, so think of this a mutual back-scratch situation, I help you now and you..."

I started to laugh. Jackson was incredible.

"Wait...what? You're shitting me?" I asked, finally giving him my full attention.

"Address?"

My laptop, my wine, my pizza, and my muted television sat in silence and let me decide.

It was only when I exhaled, that I realised I'd been holding my breath.

"You need to understand that the farthest thing from my mind, and the one thing that will make me feel ten times worse is..."

"...sex. Yeah, I know. We've all been there. Now give me your fucking address."

Did you like this update?

Have you read the book `The Hole in the Door'? Please support my ongoing work - Fox.

https://www.amazon.co.uk/Hole-Door-Fox-Emerson-ebook/dp/B08L55B38F

洞里伸进来的玩意儿 - 第十二章

作者： Fox Emerson
发布时间： 2021-08-14T00:00

+00
字数： 3120
来源： [[https://new.nifty.org/stories/what-came-through-the-hole-44027/12]]

---

请支持并向 Nifty 捐款，点这里：[http://donate.nifty.org/] 这些家伙为我们提供了这么多精彩的故事，而且不求任何回报。谢谢，祝阅读愉快！

工作很忙，显然我老婆也很忙。不知怎的，当我们俩都专注于各自的事业、共同的家务、睡眠规律、每晚的电视或书本、或者各自的长途散步或跑步时，我们彻底停止做爱了。

一个星期天早上，阳光透过薄薄的窗帘洒进来，铺满整张床，照亮了卧室。我伸手抱住她，把鸡巴顶进她屁股缝里。她咕哝着说了句要去上厕所，然后滑下床，留下我一个人意识到——这种事已经发生过很多次了。

我希望她会回来，但她没有。她看都没看我一眼，笑了笑说要去煮咖啡，披上浴袍就走了。

我老婆什么时候开始穿着背心和内裤睡觉了？

我的心沉了下去，我开始慌了。她是不是知道了？

我在床上躺了一会儿，试图回想我们的关系，到底哪里出了问题。但我想起来的只有，我和我老婆已经变成了朋友。

我们是最好的朋友，这点没得说，但不知从什么时候开始，我们不再是情人了。

我起床，光着身子走进厨房。

她看了一眼我的鸡巴，就转开了视线，说："穿上衣服！"

我走到料理台前，双手撑在台面上，看着她。"是我的裸体让你恶心了吗？"

她僵住了，慢慢转过头看着我。她的表情就像一个内心矛盾的人。"什么？"

咖啡机启动了，咖啡开始滴进她准备好的杯子里。

"我们能谈谈吗？"

我感觉自己很勇敢，但我们确实需要谈谈，搞清楚到底发生了什么。

"哦，亲爱的，这事儿以后再说吧。我得去见我姐，我们要去……"

"……去哪儿？"我绕过料理台朝她走去，双臂交叉，意识到事情比看起来更严重。

"……市场……"她随口说道，一边忙着弄咖啡。

每次我想跟她搭话，她就忙着递咖啡给我，然后给自己弄了一杯，接着抓起手机，走到客厅坐下，埋头看手机。

我试了好几次想跟她说话，但她要么敷衍我，要么根本不理会我。

虽然心里很慌，但我还是洗了澡，换了衣服，出了门。我开了一会儿车，想清空一下脑子，然后意识到我需要跑步。于是我下了车，在一个人公园里跑了起来——那公园挨着一片不错的树林。

那天，我给她发了几条消息。第一次，我意识到她的回复都很简短，像是自动生成的，专门用来切断对话的那种。结尾总是带着小小的吻，但看起来就像设定好的一样。

这种情况已经持续一阵子了，但我之前一直忙着隐藏自己的不检点行为，根本没意识到我们已经疏远到了这个地步。

"我爱你，"我给她回了一条消息。当她只回了一个简单的"x"时，我的心凉了半截。

那天晚上，我们看了一部电影。我给她按摩了脚，但她的注意力根本不在我身上。

我越想靠近她，她就越疏远我。

我开始注意到我们的睡眠模式——她几乎睡在她那一侧的边缘，我的脚找到她的脚几秒钟之后，她通常就会移开。或者半夜我伸手去碰她，她会翻个身，把我的胳膊从她身上甩开。

每一次这样的举动都像一支长矛刺穿我的心，而每支长矛都伴随着一种我已经非常熟悉的感受。

罪恶感。

这都是我的错。这一切都是我造成的。

然后，我的人生彻底崩塌了。

接下来的那个星期五，我去了办公室开会，下班后又和一个同事喝了两杯酒。这时候，我的生活已经滑向了一个黑暗的深渊——因为我知道有什么事不对劲，但不知道该怎么解决。即使和往常跟我一起喝着啤酒吹牛、笑到肚子疼的同事坐在一起，我也沉浸在自己的自怜里。他注意到了，还提了一嘴。我们离开的时候，气氛尴尬得前所未有。

他匆忙看了我一眼，带着困惑的表情，然后逃向他的车和他的周末去了。

我给海伦娜发了消息，告诉她我大概八点到家，但她没回。我试着打她电话，关机了。

到家的时候，我看见厨房台面上放着一张纸条，旁边是一瓶我最爱的红酒。

"对不起。x"

我瘫倒在地板上，感觉整个世界都在我周围翻腾。然后我跑进卧室，立刻意识到她打包了。

她所有的东西都不见了。

那张沉重冰冷的毯子压在我身上，带着所有关于我妻子的记忆。它好像要确保我清晰地经历每一个瞬间，让我明白她离开我的后果，让我回想起我们共同分享过的每一个美好快乐的时刻。

我攥着那张纸条，好像能在里面祈祷她回来似的。她的气味包围着我，她的笑容，她调皮时眼里那奇妙的光芒出现在我脑海里，那些她笑那些只有我也觉得好笑的傻事的画面，深深烙印在我的视线里。

我哭了——不，是抽泣。剧烈的、撕裂般的抽泣，震动着我的身体。某个时刻，我滑倒在瓷砖上，躺在地板上，哭着，对着空荡荡的厨房乞求她回来，手里紧紧攥着那张纸条。

偶尔，我会再给她打个电话，发条消息，然后继续哭。而她的回应跟过去几周一样。

沉默。

我不知怎么的睡了几个小时，醒来时感觉像宿醉一样，头痛欲裂，背也因为冰冷的瓷砖而酸痛。我在小房子里转悠，打开电视，茫然地盯着冰箱里的东西，心里清楚得很，我可能再也不会有胃口了——然后继续哭。

当我面对着敞开的冰箱站起来时，我哭了。不是因为里面的东西让我难受，而是因为海伦娜和我一起挑选了里面的每一件东西，而且通常会商量着怎么处理它们。

维韦克打电话来了。

"嘿，罗格，你还好吗？"

我抽泣着，告诉他海伦娜离开了我。

我听见他叹了口气，然后说："我知道，哥们。玛丽安告诉我了。"

"等等！什么？她在哪儿？她在你们那儿吗？"迷雾暂时被一丝希望冲散了。

他深吸了一口气。"不在，哥们。她住在……一个朋友那儿，我猜。听着，你想过来跟我们待会儿吗？或者我们去找你？"

我摇了摇头。"不了。我状态不太好，哥们。"

也许他挂了，或者我挂的，或者手机没电了。反正我把手机留在冰箱旁边的台面上，走到了沙发前。

痛苦是真实的，我发现自己越来越难呼吸了。

敲门声吓得我魂飞魄散，我充满希望地从沙发上弹起来。

她为什么有钥匙还要敲门？

但我打开了门，希望——不，祈祷着看见她站在那里。

维韦克带着一瓶红酒和一瓶威士忌，还有一盒我们最喜欢的印度餐厅的外卖。

看到那盒子，我立刻又抽泣起来——那可是我们周末的常规享受。

他把我带到客厅，按我坐下，在我面前放了一盘热气腾腾、香气四溢的食物，旁边是一大杯慷慨的红酒。然后他坐在我旁边，手里拿着同样分量的红酒。

我们没有为任何事干杯，我猜气氛太沉重了。

我哭着，维韦克坐在我旁边。他喝着他的酒，好像比我更需要它。也许他在想，很高兴这事儿发生在别人身上而不是他自己。但我避开了他的眼睛，因为在他的眼睛里，我能看到自己的倒影——那段时间我不太愿意看清自己。

当我扒拉着食物时，我抽泣着。维韦克不太会安慰人，但他偶尔轻轻打一下我的胳膊，或者拍拍我的腿，或者拿起我的酒杯放到我手里。

酒精确实能麻痹痛苦，所以我喝了很多。红酒喝完的时候，我们找到了冰块，打开了威士忌，开始聊起来。

维韦克回忆起了他大学时的失恋经历，我记得他当时的样子。是啊，他哭了一阵子，大概几天吧，但我们也喝了很多酒，专注于那些当时看起来极其重要的事。这场对话让我想起，我其实从没真正体验过心碎的感觉。

某个时刻，维韦克离开了，我昏了过去。

我肯定睡得像个婴儿，因为九个小时后我醒来时，只有轻微的宿醉感，而且饿得要死。

吃完东西，稍微收拾了一下之后，我回到沙发上继续哭。

接下来的星期一，我打电话请了一星期的假。我的老板奥马尔听起来有点尴尬，追问了一些细节。我真的不想告诉他海伦娜离开了我，而且整个周末都联系不上她，但我发现自己还是脱口而出了。

奥马尔通过各种各样的工作社交活动和业余活动，跟海伦娜挺熟的。所以，当我听到他倒吸一口凉气，然后沉默了相当长一段时间时，我一点都不惊讶。

"操……罗格！我他妈太遗憾了，哥们……嗯，听着，你想休多久就休多久……我是说……"他又持续了一会儿。虽然我很感激他的支持，但我告诉他我需要一个人待会儿，然后赶紧挂了电话。

我没打算这一周什么都不干，但星期一滑进了星期二，又跟星期三平淡无奇地撞在一起了。食物基本没动，家里所有的酒精开始蒸发，沙发成了我的床。

星期四，我醒来时天气预报说今天气温很高，我迫切需要出门。

我走啊走。

走啊走。

不知怎么的，我晃悠进了购物中心，茫然地穿过各种店铺，随手拿起一些奇怪的东西，又放回去——根本没注意到自己拿的是什么。

购物疗法确实有用。我买了一条新牛仔裤、一双新运动鞋、几件新上衣和一些袜子。

回到家后，我把袋子扔进衣柜里，然后回到我的全职工作——哭。

当我请了第二星期假的时候，奥马尔重申这完全没问题，但我告诉他，如果我有兴致的话，也许会远程登录做些工作。他说他会发给我一些需要人检查的东西，但强调说那不急。

那个星期五晚上，我从城里一家从没听说过的新餐厅点了越南外卖，重新补给了酒柜，喝着红酒，登录电脑，看了看奥马尔发的文件。

在我休假期间，我忘了上星期我有几个紧急而且相当重要的会议，奥马尔替我出席了，代表我做了决定。面对那永远沉重的工作量，我几乎感到跟对海伦娜一样的罪恶感。

奥马尔说过那些都不急，但那是个彻头彻尾的谎言。那些文件全都他妈早就过时了。

到星期六上午十点，我处理完了所有邮件，把奥马尔的事全揽了回来，然后瘫倒在沙发上。我不知怎么的已经把沙发改造成了一间临时卧室——把被子和枕头搬了过来，把电视也挪了位置，这样我就能舒服地看流媒体了。我睡了一整天，醒来后又喝了些酒，又做了一些工作，直到精疲力竭再次把我吞没。

我的日常生活会改变，但本质上就是：工作、睡觉、试着给海伦娜打电话、在社交媒体上 stalk 她所有的朋友找线索、打给她朋友、她姐、她弟、被各种谎言敷衍好几次，最后回到哭这个正事上。

两周后，我醒来时带着一种重新振作的决心——不再当个傻逼，回到我的生活里。我恢复了工作，立刻被拉去和奥马尔开了个会。

这个矮个子男人，可能比我大两倍，体重也比我重两倍，戴着包头巾，脸上挂着灿烂的笑容。"我想你了。谢谢你做了那么多额外的工作。我觉得你一个人干了团队一半的活儿。"他看起来真的很满意。

"没事的。对不起我请了那么多假，但我现在好多了。"

那场对话让我知道两件事：奥马尔非常欣赏我的职业道德，另外他也觉得我看起来像坨屎。他不需要说我看起来糟透了，但我能从线索里看出来——我转头时他打量我衣服的方式，我说我完全没事时他给我的那个小小的半笑，但我那句"没事"说得有点哽咽，而他看起来好像要冲过来抱住我。我很高兴他没抱过来，因为那会是一种全新的尴尬。

他还隐晦地建议说，我不需要去见任何客户了，我们的初级员工可以接手，我可以继续尽可能在家工作。

我接受了这个暗示，提议说我主要在家工作，等我觉得状态稳定了、好点了再回办公室。当他说我不需要担心客户的时候，我有种想喊出来的冲动——"这消息我他妈已经收到了，够清楚了。"

海伦娜离开我三周后，我收到了杰克逊的消息。他的消息总是试探性的，好像在试探水温，礼貌而谨慎——如果有人读到这条消息，只会看到一个男人问另一个男人最近怎么样。

我让自己都吃了一惊，给他回了消息，告诉他我老婆离开了我，我一直处在很糟糕的状态里，但我很快就会联系他的。

我本以为杰克逊会尊重这一点，就此打住。但杰克逊不是按我知道的任何规则手册行事的人。

他给我打了电话。

我是那种认为手机的通话功能既老派又没必要的人。我喜欢消息和社交媒体，因为我生在这个时代，我懂这个时代。当我手机响的时候，我会震惊地盯着它，以为是出了什么紧急情况。

当杰克逊打给我的时候，我正喝到第二杯红酒，刚回了十几封关于一个新项目的邮件，吃了两片披萨，还有几片冷披萨在耐心等着。

杰克逊打电话给我这件事，只比我自己居然接了电话这件事稍微不那么让我惊讶一点。就当是冲动吧，但当我接起电话时，我笑了。可能是几周来的第一次。

"你，我老婆——好吧，嗯——海伦娜，还有我妈，是我今年唯三给我打过电话的人，杰克逊。"我开始了，"而且这些人里，有一个显然有了我不知道的新号码。"

"我不太确定你想说什么。不过不管怎样……你好啊，罗杰。你怎么样？"

"操他妈的好极了，下一个问题？"

"想喝一杯吗？"

"不想。下一个问题？"

"操你妈的。你地址是什么。"

"不。我不需要人陪。我不想要人陪。不跟你说谎，我状态不太好。正尽量用工作忙起来，而且……"

"我又没问你的悲情故事，罗格……谁没有呢？我问的是你的地址。别担心，我不是想上你，我带酒来，带一对好耳朵来。"

我不需要多想。"我挺好的，谢谢你的邀请。我酒够多了，而且我说了，我需要点时间整理思绪，消化一下……"

"……再说一次，我没要你通过电话讲你的生平故事或者你的问题。我花了时间打给你，所以你他妈也得花时间邀请我过去，让我做一个好朋友该做的事——帮你往前走。分手真的很难。我自己可能也很快要经历一次了，所以把这当成互帮互助吧——我现在帮你，以后你……"

我开始笑了。杰克逊真他妈不可思议。

"等等……什么？你在逗我吧？"我问，终于把全部注意力转向他。

"地址？"

我的笔记本电脑、我的红酒、我的披萨、和静音的电视都沉默着，让我自己决定。

直到我呼出一口气，我才意识到自己一直在憋着。

"你需要明白，我现在脑子里最遥远的事，以及唯一会让我感觉更糟十倍的事，就是……"

"……性爱。嗯，我知道。我们都经历过。现在把你那操蛋的地址给我。"