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it’s almost like I have a new heart alongside the old one, and the new one is fresh and unused, and it can be excited to be with someone and enjoy them and want to get close. If that…” She pauses, looks up at Ash. “If that makes any sense?”
It’s not, she thinks, as she unwraps the paper from around the sandwich, that she wants a husband, or even a boyfriend. She just wants to know that the boyfriend or the husband will arrive at some point. That the job will arrive. That the career and the dog and the flat and the whole deal will arrive. It doesn’t have to be now. But some sort of guarantee would quell the fear.
“How long were you together?” “Four years. From eighteen to twenty-two. Blink of an eye from this perspective. But it felt like a marriage at the time. You know. Four years. Nowadays, four years happens when you’re in the shower.”
But everyone looks happy at least once before they kill themselves, Ash thinks. It doesn’t mean anything.
