There was so much she still wanted to say to him. She would have had to tell him the story of half her life. No — all of it. But differently: retold. The story he didn’t know. Didn’t understand. She wanted to puke up her silence, her impotence, into this miserable basin. To vomit with all she had and disgorge her fear, the fear of what was still to come. Yes: she was no longer interested in what might lie ahead. How could you live if you were constantly looking back?
