The tide of self-absorption began mounting again in his veins, as it had all evening, and when it drummed insistently behind his eyes he turned away from the window and began busying himself at the kitchen counters to drive it back down into the pool of his stomach. It required a surprising effort of belief to remember that Francine was in the next room, waiting for the dinner he had said he would bring if she could just leave him alone with his mess for a few moments, and although he knew that the wine had no doubt dampened the ignition of thought and made him an obscure, heavy creature of uncertain impulses, his malfunctioning sense of contingency was lodged in a deeper place more resistant to immediate repair. It was strange to think of how he had travelled so steadily towards this evening with Francine, his destination the object of joyful anticipation, his means of conveyance sure beneath the friction of nerves; the certainty that time would bring it to pass, and that for once he had the heart for the journey, making him lower his guard against the inevitable intervention of other forces to disrupt his passage to happiness.
