An unruly head wishing for nothing else other than grasping at it uttered, again and again "Leave me alone, you blockheads."
Mrs. Rawcab, his wife, with whom he'd spend the day, said she felt odd all of a sudden. The daily spin has come, she mused, tossing spider veins into air. She'd spent all that day pondering the past, a past that wasn't hers, that she'd dreamt up, but still she couldn't get past it. Her husband, not an attractive man, not by looks or personality, had just procured a dumb young thing that smelled much too much to begin with.
He and Mrs. Rawcab hadn't had a good old roll for quite a while.
"Women disgust me," he said. "Girls are fresher. ""Oh, how can you say that. We've been together - what? - thirty-two years now. I've raised our children and been entirely devoted to us. Doesn't that earn the fresh title?"
"No love - beauty does. Blooming not rotting."
"I'm beautiful. More even...with time, like wine. Vintage not Beaujolais."
"It smells. Frog lips, I say."
"What! - what on earth are you talking about, old fellow?"
"Your apparatus looks like a school boy experiment."
A pause. She couldn't believe it. Who was this brute next to her - worse than a frat boy?"
"I despise you," he continued, gathering up steam, nearly elated.
"Howard! How can you can that? You're drunk obviously."
"Even if I am, so what, you're a rerun, for g-fuck's sake!"
She glares at him. He has crossed the line.
"Howard, this is love."
Her look said uh-huh.
And that's when he knew he'd never leave.