We are making mountains out of molehills again, we tell ourselves the morning after. But the night before, in the alleyway behind the gay bar beneath a KFC, we breathe in air like it might slip, sands through an hourglass.
In my son’s old room (my office), the original Les Miserables playing in French, trying to work myself up to a little scribbling.
One. My husband wonders why at 48, I have begun to smoke from time to time. It is difficult to explain, so I do not try.
Hey, isn’t that the guy who was in?
That movie called?
That’s it. He’s married to?
Steve frowns and pours another scotch. He’s trying to work out the best way to finish with Megan and it’s doing his head in.