“I like to meet her and talk to her, but I want to come home to you mother,” he said rather wearily.
“But you still go trapesing up there, miles and miles, only to get home at midnight. Is there no one else to talk to?”
“You don’t care about Sartre and Descartes,” he retorted bidding her a very abrupt goodnight.
There was a terse silence. The clock ticked loudly.
He woke up groggy and disoriented. Something was stifling him. He went straight up to the sink where his mother was washing up.
“Why don’t you like her?” he groaned in despair.
“I don’t know my son. I am sure I have tried to like her. I have made attempts, but I can’t – I just can’t! She delights – she delights as she whisks you off from me. She is not a simple girl, she wants to absorb you until there is nothing left of you, not for me, not even for yourself,” she wept tears of agony and distress, “she leaves me no room, she leaves you no room,” she howled piteously.
And he immediately hated his betrothed. When he believed she had wounded his mother, he loathed her, he loathed her enough to abandon her.