I am thirty-two years old, and the best I can do on a Saturday is accompany my married friends to a craft fair. The thought inspired an instant twitch of self-loathing, because it was such a lame lament. You put something like that in your suicide note, and the cops would have a good laugh. "My wife burned dinner," someone would say. "I think I'll hang myself." Another wit would say, "Hell, nothing but reruns on. I'm gonna get the shotgun out of the attic and blow my damned head off." Wally found himself resenting these imagined cops. What did they know about his life?
( Ellen Datlow )
[ Lovecraft Unbound ]
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