I decide to leave his words in this book, where they belong. Everything is writing material for you, isn’t it? This marriage, this love, this dream I’m trying to build for the both of us. Tomorrow, you’ll be making a book out of it. There will be interviews and readings. You’ll travel, pose for photographs, jumping across cities, jet-setting around the country, going to bed with any man you fancy that night. The writer. The free woman. The trouble is that you do not want a decent chance at life. You’re only after a story, and you make my life a living hell. These words are the equivalent of an
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