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“You cannot change a man. Even if he does have his own teeth.
I don’t miss him, but I sometimes miss the idea of a husband, someone whose arm I could lean on for a tricky step down off the bus, who might take hold of my umbrella while I paid for my cup of tea.
Though I’ve yet to get to the bottom of why she owns quite such a big van, as a woman living alone in the center of London. I do hope Fitz’s not right—I’d feel awful if she turned out to be a serial killer.
“Never been one for worst-case scenarios,” Jackson says. He crouches to dip his roller in the tray; his wrists are flecked with paint now, new, brighter freckles. “When they happen, you cope. And it’s usually one you’ve not thought of that gets you, so why worry?”
It’s easy to forget, when you’re missing someone, that they’re more than just the person you remember: they have sides to themselves they only show when other people are around.
The more I talk about her the more I want to, as if there’s a dam in my brain somewhere with cracks forming and the water’s getting through and the faster the flow, the more the dam wants to break.
No bathroom bin. This doesn’t in and of itself suggest adultery, but I’ve found in my life that I rarely like a person if they’ve not had the consideration to put a bin in a bathroom. It’s always men who do this, and almost always men you cannot trust.
