“I don’t know you,” she muttered. To the pillow, again. “You’re a stranger.” He turned her around and Meche frowned as she looked into eyes which were exactly the same as she remembered them. But the rest wasn’t. And this man... she had never ridden down the boulevard on this man’s motorcycle, never scrawled idly in his books, never listened to vinyl records in an old pantyhose factory with him. And that was that. You don’t get to rewind your life like a tape and splice it back together, pretending it never knotted and tore, when it did and you know it did. Didn’t he get that?
