The Infinite Matrix | Michael Swanwick & Francisco Goya | The Sleep Of

Reason 48

01.30.03

the sleep of reason

by Michael Swanwick

with illustrations by

Francisco JosÉ de Goya y Lucientes

Click image to enlarge

Digital image © copyright

Davison Art Center,

Wesleyan University

DAC permission required

for any other use.

48. [Plate 20]

The Morning After

Well, last night was fun, but this morning is today. Time to douche, do

the laundry, shake out the featherbed, and sweep under the couch for

dust-bunnies. Oh, and those men who were feeling so good about themselves

eight hours ago? They've got to go too.

"Shoo! Shoo!" the witches cry. "No breakfast for the likes of you! Take

your pants with you ? you can put them on outside the door."

"But we love you!" the men plead.

"Tell that to your fiancÉ," the witches reply. "If that's what she still

is."

And, weeping, the men leave. If they're not sadder and wiser, at least

they're sadder. Not that the witches care much, one way or another.

They're practical women, they have things to do. There are wars to be

encouraged, courts to be corrupted, governments to be set one against

another. Compared to such matters, what importance is the disillusionment

of a handful of men? Less than nothing.

Intelligent women can disagree, of course. Those putative fiancÉs, for

example. They may well take their errant lovers back in. Women do foolish

things. They let themselves be ruled by their hearts. They gaze deep into

those soulful brown eyes. They never have a gun close at hand when they

really need one.

So uptown and downtown and over by the sanitary landfill, men are

earnestly saying, "Oh, baby, you know how much I love you!" and, "She

meant nothing to me, I swear!" and, "I was drunk and I couldn't get it up

? that's God's own truth!" None of it lies, exactly, for in the cold,

harsh light of sobriety, they believe every word of it. And women are

frowning and fuming and stamping their little feet in fury, because they

secretly know that eventually they're going to end up having to pretend

to believe every filthy word. Because this sorry excuse for a man was so

hard to get in the first place, and all the others are not one bit better.

Meanwhile, their housework done, the witches are enjoying a cup of tea.

The house sparkles, and there are fresh scones with butter. Delicately,

they dab at the corners of their mouths with napkins that are crisp and

white. Do their thoughts flit lightly over the events of last night?

Certainly they look pensive.

At last one clears her throat. "Let's say we get hold of that

thermonuclear device?" she begins.

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This is the 48th of 80 stories by Michael Swanwick written to accompany

Francisco Goya's Los Caprichos. For a listing of the most recently

available stories, go to The Sleep of Reason.

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