We had two often-happy years. And then we ended. The fights had grown worse as my avoidance did, as Marina’s drinking did, with the extension of long distance, with Marina finally moving to be with me, which didn’t help nearly as much as we thought it would. With Marina driving under the influence, with my withdrawn rages, with my saying, No, you cannot come to India with me, it is just too much. It is no slouch of a thing, bitterly arguing until you can see light playing the tops of rowhouses like piano keys, then waking to see your love reaching for you like a child, her face hot and waxy
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