she hopes that he will say no, so that she can revel in the warm muck of self-pity a little longer, blameless that it is not her fault after all, and delight in her lazy delusions of inadequacy.
And sometimes, I want her to say yes, and she does, and I feel satisfied with myself, inflated, reminded that I am wantable, even though I have placed happiness in her capricious hands and, as always, she will drop it, leaving me to pick up the pieces of my dreams alone.
And sometimes, he does not know what to want. He has no strength to want any more. He does not want to want and yet he wants to stop wanting. He wants nothing, to be in the nothing, to become a part of it, to be enraptured in the eternal everything, therefore no thing.