Mother died today. Or maybe yesterday; I can't be sure. I am taking the liberty of making Albert's lines mine. Not like Albert would care anyway. He doesn't know I exist. He doesn't know that I read his entire book in one go, while shitting. I had an upset stomach that day and I needed to read something out loud to drown out my immodest farts.
Mother said I should do something about the noises; they are not letting her eat. Fair point, I said. So I dragged Albert with me to the loo each time. Anyway, I know that Albert won't mind me taking his lines because people on various internet forums have pointed out that these lines don't convey Meursalt's anxieties. So they can't belong to him – he has disowned them. I am, therefore, going to make them mine. They convey my anxiousness. Like I was saying: Mother died. Not my mother. Madhav's. Madhav is a man I have been in love with for the past three years. He is married to another woman. He has soft, brown, comforting eyes and is a devoted husband.He is an accountant at a biggish firm; it is a steady job, I think. He likes to dance when no one is watching. He is a trained dancer and has a fake stage name for when he does dance shows. No one knows. Not his wife. Not his father. Not his mother. Well now that she is dead, that bit doesn't matter, does it?