The end of the affair

 He chose me.

Four years or so ago he got into my head and stayed.

He was troubled; they’re always the hardest ones to shake.

Not that I wanted to.

I loved that he was all mine. I thought I could do whatever I wanted with him.

But then, not so long after, she arrived.

And it became clear I was no longer in control.

They got on; more than got on. They fell in love with each other, in their own idiosyncratic way. It was mesmerizing, seeing what happened next.

And now he’s leaving with her. They’re going public.

I’m missing them already. But what’s the point in hanging on? They stopped listening to me a long time ago.

She laughs at the idea I might actually care about her. She doesn’t care about anything.

The boy is too vulnerable, too self-destructive, but he refuses help.

The girl – sometimes she’s a woman, sometimes she’s a girl – has her buttons done up in all the wrong holes; her purple silk scarf is trailing in the gutter.

The boy seems to have rather a lot of Jack Daniels in his pockets.

I’m panicking. I feel exposed. I don’t want it all to end.

I call them back, say I’m not ready, we still have work to do. But they’re going anyway.

Look at them, turning the corner now and keeping on, swinging hands. It’s getting dark. The stars are coming out. In a few moments they will have disappeared from my sight.


I finally delivered the manuscript of my novel, Tidings, to my agent on October 15. I miss my characters but suspect they’re doing fine on their own.