Michael Malone - Weebly

This wasn't what life was like, certainly not what his life
was like. Life was not one of Evelyn's grand operas.
Life was a soap opera, a rerun of Search for
Tomorrow, interminably paced and imperfectly
performed. It was a story in which one could expect to
live moderately happily (at any rate, as an affluent
American male) for a moderate number of years,
touched by a moderate number of losses, moderately
spaced over those years. Yet here was Winslow
Abernathy hurling through his life with the velocity and
the faith (and no doubt the fate) of a kamikaze pilot.
What in God's name was he trying to prove? That if
his thirty-year wife could run off with a poet, he could,
before the week's end, outdo her in audacity by
involving himself with a troubled married woman whose
husband was murdered a few days after Winslow met
her, possibly by her rapist, possibly by a new client of
his (an unemployed ex-con ex-marine out on bail for
aggravated assault)? Because yes, he was involved with
Mrs. Haig, whatever that was supposed to mean. It
was absurd. Did he expect her to listen to his suit
before they buried her husband and marry him the day