I’d be dating somebody else. Not George, someone better, and we’d be in love. We’d kiss and play pinball and take shots, and he’d tell me how glad he was that I was born, and I’d know that he meant it. I’d believe him. In this universe, there would be no need to imagine other lives, other worlds, alternate dimensions, parallel cosmos, other versions of me leading vastly different existences. No need to fantasize. That’s how happy I’d be.
