God, I miss you, he thinks. When it was good I felt like I could drink oceans and shit fire. And when it was bad I felt like I didn’t want to live. My life had a keel. I never minded the things you think I minded: your obsession with horses, with wine, with shitty pop music. You were wife material, mother material. You were a love letter to all good and proper English values: decency, practicality, personal efficacy, neighbourly kindness, moral virtue, sex with the lights off, brilliantly thought out Christmas presents, and goodness, and goodness, and goodness. Who are you fucking these days?
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