i shook and sobbed in the chilly evening air. it was cold and i’d forgotten my coat at nottingham. but there we were, a gloomy 8 o’clock in london and i was wearing a light black jacket for the sixth day in a row. i hadn’t seen you all day; i was angry at you for making my choices; i was sick with fear and hurt and trepidation.
every time is easier, that’s why it gets harder, because after a while you can imagine yourself leaving.
you misunderstood me. you reassured me that you won’t leave. that’s not what i meant. it was i that thought of leaving you. or maybe you’d understood me after all;
maybe you were shaking inside too.
tomorrow it’s our two years. on good friday.
in the evening, we’ll go to see the dutchess of malfi; in the morning, i will wake up and pray.
the irony of it all is unbeguiling. the tragedy of tragedies on our special day. i found the tickets at a dicount and i bought them. maybe i jinxed it. and maybe not.
i find that life leaves a sip for a thirsty man almost as often as it doesn’t; and so everything is left to chance. for good or bad. in sickness and in health, a dice man moment.
and i reckon we need one sometimes. tonight, tomorrow. maybe now?
a six or a one?