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the way they never ran out of stuff to talk about; they just saw five new conversational doors with every one they walked through. It was like a feast where, the more you ate, the more dishes reappeared.
A little rain was falling now, too; a drop landed squarely on the screen, distorting the green and grey boxes of text. She shivered. It wasn’t winter any more, but March in London didn’t exactly seem to be spring, either.
It was impossible that there would be cricket matches in the summer, and the Edinburgh festival, and those cloud-filled changeable days he loved – they would come round again and again, without him.
If only he could be alive again just for special occasions. If she could just have, say, three more chances to chat to him, even just three in the rest of her life.
