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In the scenes that work, we are all complicit. But the exploitation of migrants by Dwight is not as funny because most people, even when no one is looking, will not make an impoverished migrant do hard manual labour with the intention of not paying him. For many years after I watched the British original, I refused to watch the American version because I had somehow got the impression that American adaptation was more farcical. But very recently, I decided to take a chance, and I found that it had preserved the complex hilarious sorrow of the original.

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In a scene I have mentioned earlier, after Kelly is caught sabotaging two of her colleagues, she reveals that she did it because they had not attended her party and she was hurt. Michael himself is a man who is always reaching out, always trying to get people to attend his parties and is always spurned. He is a man who survives life by not seeing his circumstances. But sometimes he does see clearly. And I hate it. But now and then, Michael does find companionship. He even finds love. In some cases, we are rewarded with love when we are misunderstood by gorgeous people.

Sometimes we get lucky, and all our guacamole gets eaten. You are now subscribed to our newsletters. Humour, when it works, is always a reward for risk. Internet Not Available. Wait for it… Log in to our website to save your bookmarks.

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It'll just take a moment. Yes, Continue. Your session has expired, please login again. I stared at his hand there, on her cheek, her face, and I knew. It was her face. I gave up and rolled over to her side of the bed. I reached into the bottom drawer of her dresser and found her phone. It was her routine to plug in her phone whenever she went to bed; she used it so much—the constant texts, the Words With Friends and Facebook posts—that she needed to charge it regularly. I could go days without charging my phone. I sat on the edge of the bed with her phone in my hand. I looked back over my shoulder through the open door into the library: she was still sleeping, Zach still curled up next to her drinking his juice, watching SpongeBob.

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I looked at her phone in my hand. It was shaking. I realized my hand was shaking. I put both hands on the phone, but they were both shaking, my whole body was shaking, every muscle clenched. It was as if the temperature had suddenly dropped, a winter wind whipping through the room, my body tensing against cold. I had learned her muscle memory.

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  7. And I was right. I looked at the top of the screen and saw the name. It seemed impossible, but there it was. Valerie had talked about him a lot, felt sorry for him, intrigued by him. She was amazed by this, by his vulnerability. I followed the text thread backward in time so I could start at the beginning. I stopped reading immediately and looked out the window. I was shaking and thinking, remembering back to the previous afternoon.

    As usual, she danced a little to whatever private song she was listening to. And, as usual, she periodically stopped everything to text. She always thanked me. I kept reading. An hour would go by, then four or five texts passed quickly between them. Ed seemed to be playing hard to get, not sure he could find a ride downtown. Not sure where his friends were. But as the night wore on, she began to more overtly seduce him, to suggest what could happen.

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    The tone changed. I could read the alcohol in her texts.

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    What stunned me most were the final half-dozen texts prior to her arrival at his door. Megan thanked her for checking in. It was clear to me that Valerie had suggested to Megan that she was walking the few blocks from her apartment to our house, not a good idea but not completely reckless.

    The neighborhood between was made up of single-family homes and the grounds of the local high school, a series of quiet streets, not many college students likely to be wandering around throwing up in the bushes or passed out on lawns. No, those things happened on the other side of town. But as it turned out, Valerie was headed precisely there, to the other side of town. And she walked the entire distance at 4 a. Along with the text lying to her best friend, this detail astonished me the most. That she would walk all that way. I put the phone in the drawer and walked back into the library.

    Valerie roused and looked up, smiled. Then she fell back to sleep. Zach peeled himself away from her and rolled out of the beanbag chair. He handed me his sippy cup.

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    I took it, then reached down for him, to pick him up and hold him in my arms. I made him instant oatmeal with strawberries. He also wanted an egg. I remember thinking how much he reminded me of Will, his big brother. I remember the spatula shaking as I turned the egg over and waited for it to cook. When Valerie had texted at a. She knew I was concerned for her. I felt outside of it, outside of whatever life she lived with all the people she was communicating with. Was everything OK? If we were on the back porch, where we did most of our talking, she might wave a hand in front of her face as if shooing a gnat or dispersing the smoke of her cigarette.

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    Or maybe she was ridding the air around her of the smell of my question. You know that. And I guess I did know that. This had been devastating, Valerie said. And I believed it, except for the fat part; she looked great as far as I was concerned, as far as everyone was concerned. And she was going out every chance she could. She was laughing.

    Gala was a relatively new friend, a graduate student, close to ten years younger than Valerie; I knew from the phone bill that on average, the two of them texted each other fifty or sixty times a day. Before long, she took trips on her own to visit Nate. I never said a word. I never thought I needed to. After breakfast, I left Zach downstairs watching TV and went up to the library. Valerie was still sleeping. Did I nudge her awake, kick the beanbag chair softly until she opened her eyes, yell at her to get up?

    Valerie was a liar. And a very good one. Her text exchange with Ed played across a screen in my mind, subtitles for a silent film I had no trouble providing moving images for. In my mind, on the screen above the texts, I played the movie of her long crawl through the bars and clubs of Masonville.

    I suppose I knew what would happen if I kept watching the movie in my mind, if I began to imagine what my wife was doing in the bars and nightclubs of our college town, a town infamous for its party scene. And what I saw was a door open on an apartment littered with drug paraphernalia and empty beer cans, the camera turning toward Valerie standing in the doorway holding her high heels in two fingers, her bare feet red and raw at the threshold. I watched a drug-addled man-boy close the door behind her. She was still lying on the beanbag chair, still weirdly half-smiling, looking up at me, her trembling husband standing over her like a little boy on the beach watching his sandcastle wash away.

    I reached out for a nearby bookcase to steady myself. She was stoned as well as drunk, I was sure now.


    Her voice was slow, even sweet, and she cocked her head just slightly to punctuate her question. Her blithe response pissed me off and quieted my panic for a second. I was mad enough suddenly to spit out a direct statement. Even Valerie seemed smaller, as if she were close to some new horizon on the other side of the room. But her voice, when she spoke, was steady and slow.

    I wondered if she was too drunk to say anything else, if perhaps that one question was all she had left of the English language, at least until the buzz wore off. Or at least not well. I gave up in frustration and went downstairs to check on Zach. A couple of hours later I left for my office, left Zach in the care of a now hungover and very quiet Valerie. And though supposedly I was going to the office in order to prepare for an upcoming department meeting, I spent the entire time on the phone with my sister and my best friend Joseph. I, on the other hand, refused to see anything clearly, to believe what was rapidly assembling in front of my eyes.

    I kept pausing to wipe the sweat off my cell phone. My ear felt sore; I realized I was clamping the damn thing too hard against the side of my face. Joseph had been hearing me talk about my concerns for months, had offered suggestions for getting Valerie to pay more attention to me and the family. He knew the names because I knew the names, because Valerie talked about everything, about everyone, and especially about her students, whom she seemed to run into without fail whenever she was out with friends.

    I should kick her out immediately, he said. I suddenly imagined her at her home in California, probably out by the pool watering plants as she talked to me. But Holly had heard Valerie talk about her nights out, about her adoring students and the crazy things they said. The context of those posts was presumably camaraderie, the fun times of kindred spirits, but the subtext was sex and drinking.

    Even an idiot like me could see that. No, Joseph said. Not an explanation. When I got home from the office, Valerie confronted me before I could confront her.