I’m not ready to tell her.
What would she say? Would she let me stay?
I’m lazy and she knows it.
Sometimes the truth is best hidden or at least held back.
Serves me right, she’d say. Not like I was one for concentrating anyway, but it would make her happy.
I need a change. I don’t want to be staring and working on it all night. Sometimes even a goodnight is hushed or forgotten. Would we instantly forgive and forget? She would, and I take that for granted that sometimes she just will not forget.
She loves me more than I would like to recount or measure, but her concern becomes my loss. My loss of freedom. My loss of income.
I shall tell her someday, on the ever so rare fair-weathered day.