The Bomber by Liza Marklund

away the whole Saturday and then, when you finally come home, you swear and shout at me," he said wearily. "Are we just here to take shit from you?"
     
     
She could feel the tears welling up in her eyes, tears of fatigue and inadequacy. "I'm sorry," she whispered. "I didn't mean to fly off the handle at you. It's just that they're at me all day at work, and it's really hard. And then I feel guilty for not being at home with you and the kids. I'm so scared you'll think I'm letting you down, but the paper won't allow me to let them down, and so I'm caught in the middle of some crossfire…"
     
     
She started crying for real now. She could hear him sighing on the other side of his back. After a few moments, he turned around and took her in his arms.
     
     
"There, there, damn it. Come on, darling, you'll be all right. You're better than the whole lot of them…. Shit, you're cold as ice! I hope you don't catch cold, just before Christmas."
     
     
She laughed through her tears and cuddled up in his arms. Silence fell over them in a warm and safe mutual understanding. She leaned her head back onto her pillow and blinked. Up there in the dark, the ceiling was floating. Suddenly she remembered the image from the morning and the dream she was woken up from by the telephone.
     
     
"I dreamed of you this morning," she whispered.
     
     
"I hope it was a dirty dream," he mumbled, half asleep.
     
     
She laughed quietly. "And how! In a space shuttle, no less. And the men from Studio Six were watching."
     
     
"They're just envious," Thomas said and went to sleep.
     
    LOVE
I was an adult and had already gained a certain position in life when it first hit me. For a few short moments, it lifted my sense of universal loneliness. Our souls really did merge in a way I hadn't experienced before. It's interesting to have taken part in it, I won't say more than that, and since then I have met with this sensation on several occasions. Looking back on it, however, most of my impressions can be summed up as indifferent and almost resigned. I say this without bitterness or disappointment; it's simply a statement. It's only now, this last year, that I have started to waver in my opinion. The woman I have found and come to love is perhaps capable of changing it all.

But deep down I know this isn't so. Love is banal. It fills you with the same chemical intoxication as a long-sought success or the dizzying experience of high speed. Your mind is oblivious to everything except your own enjoyment, your existence is distorted, and an irrational state of possibility and happiness is created. Despite the varying subjects, the magic has never been long lasting. In the long run, it breeds nothing but weariness and aversion.

The most beautiful love is always impossible to attain. It has to die when it's most alive; as for the rose, its only chance is to be cut down at its prime. A dried or preserved plant can give pleasure for many years. A love that is hastily crushed at its moment of strongest passion has the ability to hold people spellbound for centuries.

The myth of love is a fairy tale, as unreal and unrealistic as a continuous orgasm.

Love shouldn't be mistaken for true devotion. That's something completely different. Love doesn't "ripen"; it only fades and, at the best of times, is replaced by warmth and tolerance, though mostly by unspoken demands and bitterness. This goes for all types of love: that between the sexes, between generations, and in the workplace. How many times haven't I come across bitter wives with fingers scoured to the bone and sexually frustrated husbands? Emotionally handicapped parents and neglected children? Misunderstood managers and employees who long ago stopped being glad they had a job and instead were only making demands?

It is possible to love your job. That love has for me always been truer than that between people. The genuine delight in succeeding with something I had set my mind on outshines all other