The rest of the day passes like a dream. I am not myself. I am not Anna the mother, nor Anna the journalist, not even Anna the sister. I am not divorced or thirty-eight or anything you could write on paper. I am simply a woman in the woods, in my own private Eden, returned to a raw, animal state. I’m annoyed and delighted in equal measure to discover why this beautiful, arrogant, swaggering man walks through life with such a cocksure gait. In his hands, my body feels like a Ferrari, long parked in a dusty garage, now being driven by a Formula 1 driver who knows exactly how to handle one.
