I remember the night I got home and told her I’d finished the book proposal, and she said, ‘God help us all,’ and we drank Prosecco and she said I could have my birthday present early. It was the plastic crow. We made love and I kissed her shoulder blades and reminded her of the story of my parents lying to me about children growing wings and she said, ‘My body is not bird-like.’ We were smack bang in the middle, years from the finish, taking nothing for granted. I want to be there again. Again, and again. I want to be held, I wanted to hold. It was the plastic crow. We made love. The wing
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