“Oh, for God’s sake! Why won’t you get angry? Why won’t you tell me to get out?”
“Arthur, what is the matter?” She speaks gently.
“I wish you’d get angry, just once. I’d like to fight and fight with you. I’d like to make you cry. I could, too, if I only knew how to begin.”
She looks at you in silence. Then go on—“Sit up, Alice! Sit up and slap me. Stop looking so damned comfortable. You don’t really feel comfortable.”
“But I do,” she protests. “I’m sorry, but I do.” It is funny, but she doesn’t laugh.
“No you aren’t. You’re sure enough of yourself; you’re secure, but you don’t like all this any more than I do.”
“All what?”
“All—all that you don’t like. Why can’t you tell me? I keep hoping you will, but you never do. Why can’t you tell me? I tell you everything. You have every bit of me. You make me tell you everything and then you never give anything back.”
“Arthur!” she cries, hurt.
“I can’t help it.” Lean closer to her startled face. “There’s just one thing I really want. Just one. The one thing I’ll never get from you.”