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The monolith of his marriage, and my own solitariness and flimsiness by comparison. I feel very small, slight, impermanent. It is not too late for me to save myself.

Maybe he’s the kind of man who conducts flirtations with women in such a way as to allow his wife to find out; she then puts a stop to the developing affair and, though he grumbles etc, this is what he wants, and needs. No idea why I thought of this. Just running through the painful possibilities.

One day I’ll have to burn this book. I use as buckets of cold water thoughts of his wife’s preparations for Christmas.

The only way I can have anything to do with him is by (a) lies and (b) hurting someone. Am I prepared to do this?

I see that what I am doing, in this diary, is conducting an argument with myself, about these two men, and myself, and men in general.