I turn back the pages, and there we are in the living room, on the first afternoon, fighting in the old familiar way, and there we are standing at night by the window, as if everything were as always and as if she weren’t thinking about him the whole time, and there we are sitting at breakfast, and I describe her eyes, not actually blue, more turquoise, with a sprinkling of black, and the phone is lying next to her, and David is writing to her and she to him and he to her and she to him and he to her, while I—why does it say Get away there?
