Sin by Josephine Hart

I tried. One should. He was in pain. The pain of isolation. The isolation of pain. I listened to his pain. It’s hard to hear. One listens so rarely. Certainly can’t feel it. Another’s pain. Why does everyone in pain want to share it? There is no diminution. Me divided into your pain will not diminish it. Surely you knew that, Dominick? Your pain divided by my decent—yes, decent—concern, would not diminish it. And eventually, Dominick, I would grow bored by your pain. And wish to be the victim—just for a change. And now, listening to pain, I wanted to race towards pleasure. Any kind of pleasure. For relief.
    â€œYou had a kind of light around you. An intelligence. A quickness.”
    Speed of light? Do you know what you say, Dominick? How you pick your words from your version of the world.
    â€œI see you, turning … on a point. Almost … towards me.”
    A pedestal perhaps?
    â€œIn my visions of you … you’re always turning towards me.”
    Isn’t that ironic? Listen!
    â€œAnd this vision of you, as I reached towards it, kept turning towards me. Because I wanted it so much. It didn’t move away.”
    Will he remember me as a vision? Like the man who fell in love with the face of a passenger on a ship, sailing away? Just a face. And stayed faithful. I might have been just a remembered face. And done no harm. Such an innocent thing. A face, when loved. From a distance.
    â€œI thought … Ruth. It’s her. It’s Ruth. And so it always has been. Such a simple thing.”
    I should have let you go, Dominick. I should have known I was dealing with an idealist. An idealist in love, worse than a romantic. Oh, infinitely. An idealist. Always faithful. Loyal. Trustworthy. Rare, of course, but not treasured. Few buyers.
    â€œAnd now I don’t know what to do. It’s just impossible. …”
    Yes, Professor. You have a dilemma. Indeed you have. What to do … with the pain. With the love. Too much love.
    Should this be presented in percentages? Quantities? Liquid, perhaps? Comparatively? Statistically? Geometrically? In algebraic terms? If x = ? I don’t know. I’m not the mathematician. Just picked up some phrases. Extra love marks the critical point. What does one do with the extra love? Add an extra ingredient? Bitterness? Some contrast? Hate perhaps?
    â€œYou have destroyed our past, it just seems to lead to now.”
    His past had been unpredictable. And the future … ?
    Has a shadow. It falls across the path. We will stumble if we continue on the road.
    â€œIt’s not, Ruth, that I could ever stop loving you. Ever. It is simply that I’m not brave enough to see you all the time and know what I know.”
    â€œNo.”
    â€œI’m a coward.”
    â€œNo.”
    â€œI’m afraid of you—in the morning … it’s …”
    Even I do not know the word. He continues: “And I fear … other … things.”
    Naked power. At night. But sometimes in the morning. Naked mornings. Morning power.
    â€œEven the hidden sweetness in you when you touch or talk to William. I suppose I fear … my fear.”
    â€œSo?”
    â€œI’ll just go.”
    Go? To where? And to what?
    â€œI’ll live apart from you. I can’t … I can’t live with you.”
    Oh, God. This is going to be very difficult. What will Charles say? Think, Ruth. Think. I could lose him. Charles.
    Dominick is still talking.
    â€œElizabeth is giving up her studio here.”
    â€œElizabeth.” What is her name doing here? In this room. In this conversation?
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œI see I’ve got your attention. Charles means to spend less time in London. He’s building her a special studio at Frimton.”
    â€œHow do you know?”
    â€œBecause I talked to Charles.”
    â€œWhen?”
    â€œA few days ago. I suppose he thought it more appropriate to tell me about