thought it might be worth a go.”
Twenty-eight years I have carried that car park as a thing I did to a decent man, and he had understood it perfectly at the time, and had asked anyway, and had gone off and had a whole life.
He asked after my rhubarb. That was the end of the conversation.
Where things are.
The shoebox is on top of the wardrobe in my mother’s room, which I still call my mother’s room.
The ring is in it. It is small and it is 1984 and it is not to my taste and I have not worn it and I am not going to.
And the last thing.
In the February I posted one.
Not to him. There is nowhere to post anything to him.
The 1986 card — the second one in the box, the year everything happened, the year of the letter —
