There are these moments when I see clearly how hard Roi is trying to learn to live with the new him, the new me, the clattering and discordant us.
The new him is disbelieving that he was ever that man who once set to work seducing the bookkeeper of one of his clients. Who made plans with her to meet at a resort in upstate New York. Who sent her a photo of himself petting the face of a horse because he knew she was an animal lover. He laughs like an adult remembering childhood antics that are so distant they are more like memories of storybook tales rather than events experienced firsthand.
The new me is a tattered assortment of vague elements. A moth-eaten sweater. Stuttered attempts to reclaim things that used to flow without effort. Hope, motivation, progression toward things, curiosity. The official depression has lifted, but I feel as substantial as a ghost.
I've lost all patience, all empathy with Roi and it seems at least weekly I tear him down for being who he is. And yet each time, after his initial arrogant defense, he tries harder, tells me he loves me, and gives more. I wonder now if I'm the cruel one. If what I'm asking is as absurd as asking an armless man to will himself to grow new limbs.