034. Not Enough
Not Enough
Sometimes it's just not enough. When he's home with a wife that no longer loves him, no longer cares if he's late, no longer gets angry when he misses dinner. That is the time that he knows its not enough. He wants more. And that's when he despairs because surely there is no more to have. Surely he has no more to give, he who lost so much. So he stares at the uncaring wife over the top of the journal or book or newspaper and feels something wither inside him, feels something threaten to die.
Sometimes he wonders whether it would be better to no longer accept not enough. Whether he should try for more, try for what he wants. But then he will arrive, limping and in pain, looking drawn and weary and he feels he can ask no more of this man. That if he does it will be what breaks him. For he is vulnerable even if he tries to hide it. Mostly he succeeds. Very few others have seen him stumble and fall.
She has. She saw him stumble, saw him fall, saw him scream with pain. She loved him then…loves him still in some way. He wishes she had never returned. He hasn't been the same since she came back. There is nothing he can do to ease the confusion, the uncertainty that rattles through him. He tries though; he offers what support he can, he banters, he jokes, he plays and hopes, just hopes, that when he eventually has to leave that he is happier, calmer, more settled. And all he can think as he walks away is…this is not enough.