Intermezzo

by Sally Rooney

From that so firmly suppressed feeling, present all along, that when he looks at her, when

he speaks to her, he is addressing not only the superficial but also the deep concealed parts of her personality – without meaning to, without knowing how not to. Looking at her, his eyes communicate: I know that you are a person with desires, and so am I, even if I am helpless to do anything about this knowledge. Has she, unconsciously, half-consciously, been enjoying the little interplay between their respective roles? His repressed but perceptible impatience with the other men, his attentiveness towards her, his quiet searching looks, the colour that rose to his face just now.

mute bewildered acceptance of life’s inexplicable cruelties.

This is what you get. To work in a nice place with a few interesting people, to have friends with whom to discuss life and ideas. To attend the theatre, to hear live music, to arrange the use of the studio room on Monday nights for the local philosophy reading group. Oh, Kierkegaard, that’ll be interesting. To exercise once again, for a little time, who knows how long, the power to charm and fascinate, to be the object of an intense and searching desire. And to feel inside herself the reciprocating force of desire, this is what she gets, a life of her own.

Last weekend, with the light coming through the curtains, she and Ivan lay half-awake in each other’s arms: and when he looked at her, she seemed to feel herself understood completely, as if everything that had ever happened to her, everything that she had ever done, was accepted quietly into his understanding.

There is more to life than great chess.

I just get off on messing with her head, I don’t know why. I’m in love with someone else anyway. Once you meet your soulmate, there’s no point pretending, is there? Feeling of solace you get when she’s near you. To live the right life.