Bruckner's 8th.

Expecting difficulty, I put on the very slow 3rd movement, but I surprised myself by taking a quick, almost female, ten second shit and this moment of physical surprise was to play out later in the day, whereupon I also softened the instinct with Bruckner's difficult, overlong masterpiece. The moment occurred as I drove home and, on impulse, swerved back in the direction of Thom and his mother. I hadn't planned or wanted, nor even dreamt this happening. The light was fading. It was the twitching hour. And so, wincing with the delight of self punishment, I put on Bruckner's 3rd movement and sat in my car outside their house, waiting for proof. Of course, aside from the perilous state of my son's soul, I had no evidence of another man. I skipped to the 4th movement, reflecting that all things are only waiting to be proven true, yet this was not nearly proximate to the news in my marrow, or, after Lowell, the sound of each sobbing blood cell. I pictured the new lover as having a large, mis-shapen head, the face of an unsuccessful comedian. But all I saw were the bobbing features of a mother and her son so I soon tired and decided there were other, more sophisticated, perhaps even sexual ways of discovering the truth. I would make a pass at her. I would wind down my window and lean out, leering. It would have to be a punchy, all american, no nonsense offer. All smiles, no regret. Certainly, her response will be noted, but it isn't admissible evidence. Instead I will scrutinise the extent of her pupil dilation, thereby the force of her involuntary desire and, thereupon, I'll have my answer. I'll do it tomorrow, late afternoon, the idling hour. And so it was, I was able to deny the horror of my feelings and drive home a regular, positive, cheerful sort of man.