The point is you never say anything. I haven’t a clue what you think about anything important.

Sorry.

Stop it. Stop being so damned… absent.

Ambrose shrugged.

Don’t you care about anything? I mean really have an opinion. Beyond it’s lovely?

Fine, said Ambrose. If you must know. I think the Vela’zquez is remarkable because it doesn’t matter to me that she was an actress or that the sheets are black. I think abstract expressionism is crap. I think Brussels sprouts are crap. I think I could paint but I don’t have the nerve. I think I am an unbelievably lucky man who is married to a woman who I think looks a little like the Rokeby Venus and I think if I open my mouth to say something I think is important I think she will discover she’s married a fool.

You are many things, my love. A fool is not one of them. You’re imagining things.

I am keeping things to myself. Having an opinion doesn’t require sharing it with everybody.
It requires sharing it with me. Because I get to know what you think. I get to know you better than anyone else.

You do. Always have, always will, full stop. Let it go.

One more thing.

What?
You’re wrong.

Am I?

Luck has nothing to do with us.

pg 88-89 The End of the Alphabet, CS Richardson