There they were, his own words, in his own hand, on the page. And he did not recognize himself. Or at least he did not recognize an image of himself he had been nursing along. He wanted to see some line of consistency. But there he was, more or less as she had recently said, promising. True, a few pages on he qualifies the promise, explains how circumstance, not predilection, lead to this promise. Not really a promise, but an acceptance, an acquiescence .

Still was he not equivocating? Did he not accept it all the same. And now he wanted to renege. She had lied. And as he read through the entries from those painful days he could see it. He had misread her or was baffled by her behavior. But he did not know what was transpiring. And now it seemed he could trace it. She was being deceitful and it pained her. He only saw the pain, not the true source. But this only made it all the worst. Because his response was so unlike him (or the image of him he struggled for). He had brayed about it, moaned and crawled along the floor crying out about his loss. Of course her clandestine activities, had he known of them, would not have mitigated this sense of loss. Or perhaps it would have. He ponders the strife, the thing said when drunk, the coldness