Free Intimacy by Hanif Kureishi Page B

‘concerned’, if not pained, look. What a job, the harvesting of misery. She will never want for work.
    Susan was soon into her second handkerchief.
    The therapist, like me, appeared to sympathize with Susan, particularly when – in the attempt to get things started – I tried to define love as curiosity. I argued that unrest, disquiet, curiosity and the desire for more was at the root of life – you could see it in children. I said I had lost my curiosity about Susan. I said I had no passion to know her soul. She bores me; or I bore myself when I am with her. I said:
    â€˜All that matters is the hinge!’
    The therapist leaned forward. ‘What does the hinge mean to you?’
    â€˜The hinge?’
    â€˜Yes. How does it make you feel?’
    I leaned towards her. ‘The hinge of one’s mind! Whether it opens inwards or outwards. Let it be outwards. Let it be – out!’
    I fell back in the chair, ashamed of my desire, of all I wanted. That I couldn’t want my life with Susan – which should have been enough – was inexplicable and cruel. The therapist, surely seeing the point of the hinge, would help me with this.
    The woman, who presumably believed in the ungovernable desires of the unconscious, appeared, nonetheless, to be some kind of rationalist. She replied patiently that relationships did become less passionate. This was to be expected. Enthusiasm would be replaced by other consolations.
    Consolations! Mad to learn what they were, I could have kissed those consolations from her lips!
    â€˜Yes?’ I said.
    â€˜Contentment,’ she murmured.
    I leaned forward once more. ‘Sorry?’
    She repeated it: contentment.
    She was all for maturity and acceptance. Yes!
    Sobbing Susan was nodding.
    How I wished I were nodding – with my face between Nina’s legs, my hands holding her arse up like a dish I am hungry for, my tongue in all her holes at once – tears, dribble, cunt juice, strawberries! I suck the soup of your love. Soul doctor, therapist – who tickles their tongue in your old hole? I am not ready for the wisdom of misery; I have had that with Mother. I am all for passion, frivolity, childish pleasures! Yes, it is an adolescent cry. I want more. Of what? What have you got?
    The therapist insisted we see her later that week.
    Susan’s fat, red weeping face in that room the second time, as I declare that I don’t think things can be repaired. To have made it absolutely clear, I should have given her a back-hander or a finger in the eye. Then they would have understood! Instead, the therapist gets up and goes to the shelf where she extracts a book. She tries to get me to read a poem aloud. I glance over it. Seeing it is a bad poem, and being smart, I say I’ve forgotten my glasses. Ever-obedient Susan has to read it out in a tremulous voice, glancing at me in the old way, as if to say, later we will laugh at this. I keep thinking: I’m paying to hear poetry read aloud. I would pay not to hear this. Not even poetry can help us!

After my morning coffee
    After my morning coffee Susan’s blonde head coming through the open window of my flat in west London –  a bunch of flowers, a book or a video behind her back. She wasn’t working then, ten years ago. When I’d done enough for the day, she’d drive round in her little black car at the end of the morning, something tight around her breasts making them bulge and sway. I’d kiss her and pull her through the window.
    We’d drive out to the country.
    ‘Pull up your skirt,’ I’d say, looking at her as we went, hoping for more. ‘Higher!’
    The morning after the first time, we went out for kippers and fried mushrooms. As we walked she put her arms around me. I remember, most of all, her grip. How she pulled me to her! If only I disliked her entirely, and weren’t in love with Nina. What we like: English seaside towns, for instance, even in the winter. Certain