On the Overground train I pick over our messages panning for the slightest glint in the water that would convince me it was worth the wait, glossing over where he says he can’t commit, he is stuck, it is impossible to leave his wife, and instead I hold onto his compliments which he gives me as cheap recompense for any structural changes—as if new curtains would costume or refashion a gaping hole in the wall, as if he is an estate agent telling me, yes you’re cold and this hole is largely inconvenient—but use your imagination and pretend it’s a window, just look at that view.
