I sit at the table one night, drinking wine and looking out of the window, at the bald patch in the garden where we had the bonfire, and the bath full of old saucepans and cracked china that we couldn’t burn and so don’t know how to get rid of. I think about our relationship, and the way that the city eroded our love. I send him an email, even though I know I shouldn’t. I write, ‘Autumn always makes me think of you, in your long, brown coat.’ In the morning I read his reply. ‘Sometimes it is nice to hold onto things, instead of letting them go. Isn’t it?’
