My dreadful hangovers, I always tell him about them, don't I? My dreadful hangovers … he can see the effect. I look terrible, absolutely terrible. I can barely string a few words together.
And then there's my smile, my dreadful smile. It's a corpse's grin, says W. There it is, shining through everything … It's as though I were taking some kind of revenge, W. says. As though I was exacting a kind of revenge upon myself, for what he doesn't know.
But why's he always in the firing line? Why does he have to be there to see one of my dreadful smiles? Because he doesn't think I'd smile if I were on my own, even though my smile, my dreadful smile seems like one of the most impersonal things in the world.
'You have that look which says everything's over, it's all finished', W. says. 'It's that look which says, we're all dead, we died some time ago … But it hasn't finished, has it?', W. says. 'And it won't have finished until that dreadful smile, the mockery of the whole of existence, is wiped from your face'.
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