Heart the Lover

by Lily King

‘The elephant, the huge old beast,’ it began, ‘is slow to mate.’ They wait ‘for the sympathy in their vast shy hearts slowly, slowly to rouse.’ I wasn’t an elephant. My heart had never been slow. I tore it up.

I can hear how tired he is. I have the impulse to launch a real argument, or tirade, about men and their ignorance of women’s lived experiences and how we cope with so much they cannot understand, but they always make us feel in some sort of debt. But he might only get a few hours’ sleep if Jack has a bad night, and Silas is the exception to the rule, so I let it go.