And so, she noticed, it was with A&B. A&B had been together for, oh, ages. Almost two decades, which was far longer than most people's memories stretched, as long as a housing bond almost. Now *that* was real commitment...
Everyone was always remarking on what a good, strong relationship they had. They basked in the smug assurance of knowing that that was so, and smiled fondly at their little girls growing more beautiful and cleverer by the day. And then, suddenly, it wasn't like that anymore.
A had an affair. B was devastated. Within the space of microseconds they went from perfect couple to statistic. A felt trapped, watched, defensive. B felt betrayed, rejected, stupid. Years of anger and hostility and suppressed aggression came pouring out in accusations of "you always" and "you never" and the little girls looked on in confusion.
A spoke to Carnivorous Cow. "I love B, but..." began each sentence.
B spoke to Carnivorous Cow, too. Sentences began "I love A so much, but..."
Carnivorous Cow asked A and B if they told each other that they loved each other. Neither answered the question directly. Both claimed they were acting with love, but. Blame was never far from their lips. Carnivorous Cow started to wonder if blame was part of love, the shadow side. She was glad that love lived on the other side of the barbed wire fence to herself, and hoped fervently that it stayed there.
Gramsci called her a cynic, but she didn't see how a spider had any grounds for that. Spiders, after all, routinely devoured each other after their carnal bliss, which made for brief but passionate "relationships", and this struck Carnivorous Cow as ideal. Well, aside from the Doom on the windowsill...