The Edible Woman

“Once I went to the zoo and there was a cage with a frenzied armadillo in it going around in figure-eights […] They say all caged animals get that way when they're caged, it's a form of psychosis, and even if you set the animals free after they go like that they'll just run around in the same pattern. You read and read the material and after you've read the twentieth article you can't make any sense out of it anymore, and then you start thinking about the number of books that are published in any given year, in any given month, in any given week, and that's just too much. Words,” he said, looking in my direction finally but with his eyes strangely unfocused, as though he was really looking at a point several inches beneath my skin, “are beginning to lose their meanings.”

“It's like term papers, you produce all that stuff and nothing is ever done with it, you just get a grade for it and heave it in the trash, you know that some other poor comma-counter is going to come along the year after you and have to do the same thing over again, it's a treadmill, even ironing, you iron the damn things and then you wear them and they get all wrinkled again.”

“Well, and then you can iron them again, can't you?” Marian said soothingly. “If they stayed neat you wouldn't have anything to do.”

“Maybe I do something worthwhile for a change,” [Duncan] said. […] “Production-consumption. You begin to wonder whether it isn't just a question of making one kind of garbage into another kind. The human mind was the last to be commercialized but they're doing a good job of it now.”

Of course Duncan was making what they called “demands,” if only on her time and attention; but at least he wasn’t threatening her with some intangible gift in return. His complete self-centeredness was reassuring in a peculiar way. Thus, when he would murmur, with his lips touching her cheek, “You know, I don’t even like you very much,” it didn’t disturb her at all because she didn’t have to answer. But when Peter, with his mouth in approximately the same position, would whisper “I love you” and wait for the echo, she had to exert herself.

I had just begun on the windows when the phone rang. It was Duncan. I was surprised; I had more or less forgotten about him. […]

I was irritated with him for not wanting to discuss what I was going to do myself. Now that I was thinking of myself in the first-person singular again I found my own situation much more interesting than his.

“Maybe Peter was trying to destroy me, or maybe I was trying to destroy him, or we were both trying to destroy each other, how's that? What does it matter, you're back to so-called reality, you're a consumer.”

“Incidentally,” I said, remembering, “would you like some cake?” I had half the torso and the head left over.

[…] It gave me a peculiar sense of satisfaction to see [Duncan] eat as if the work hadn't been wasted after all—although the cake was absorbed without exclamations of pleasure, even without noticeable expression. I smiled comfortably at him.

[…] He scraped the last chocolate curl up with his fork and pushed away the plate. “Thank you,” he said, licking his lips. “It was delicious.”