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The Blind Assassin

You surprise me, she says.Do I? he says. Why? Though I like to surprise you. He lights a cigarette, offers her one; she shakes her head for no. He’s smoking too much. It’s nerves, despite his steady hands.Because you said they fell in love, she says. You’ve sneered at that notion often enough—not realistic, bourgeois superstition, rotten at the core. Sickly sentiment, a high-flown Victorian excuse for honest carnality. Going soft on yourself?Don’t blame me, blame history, he says, smiling. Such things happen. Falling in love has been recorded, or at least those words have. Anyway, I said he was lying.You can’t wiggle out of it that way. The lying was only at first. Then you changed it.Point granted. But there could be a more callous way of looking at it.Looking at what?This falling in love business.Since when is it a business? she says angrily.He smiles. That notion bother you? Too commercial? Your own conscience would flinch, is that what you’re saying? But there’s always a tradeoff, isn’t there?No, she says. There isn’t. Not always.You might say he grabbed what he could get. Why wouldn’t he? He had no scruples, his life was dog eat dog and it always had been. Or you could say they were both young so they didn’t know any better. The young habitually mistake lust for love, they’re infested with idealism of all kinds. And I haven’t said he didn’t kill her afterwards. As I’ve pointed out, he was nothing if not self-interested.So you’ve got cold feet, she says. You’re backing down, you’re chicken. You won’t go all the way. You’re to love as a cock-teaser is to fucking.He laughs, a startled laugh. Is it the coarseness of the words, is he taken aback, has she finally managed that? Restrain your language, young lady.Why should I? You don’t.I’m a bad example. Let’s just say they could indulge themselves—their emotions, if you want to call it that. They could roll around in their emotions—live for the moment, spout poetry out of both ends, burn the candle, drain the cup, howl at the moon. Time was running out on them. They had nothing to lose.He did. Or he certainly thought he did!All right then.She had nothing to lose. He blows out a cloud of smoke.Not like me, she says, I guess you mean.Not like you, darling, he says. Like me. I’m the one with nothing to lose.She says, But you’ve got me. I’m not nothing. ― Margaret Atwood, The Blind Assassin

You surprise me, she says.Do I? he says. Why? Though I...

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