I'm thinking of Andrea McLean — I cried when she left Loose Women, how openly she spoke of loneliness
in a marriage. My thoughts turn to our beach wedding: you and me, and
an expenses spreadsheet.
We wore Hawaiian leis. Auntie Anne watched the DVD, said it was like 'An Officer and a Gentleman'.
I remember you covered my mouth when I came.
I'm in a poetry workshop with Jack Underwood: patterns in language —the tyranny of the habitual, how
dull it can be, our tendency to talk of a line of trees. I think of the quote from Gibran about the cypress and
the oak, failing to grow in each other's shadow; and of the scold's bridle to tame women. Since I told
you I don't love you anymore, you've taken up gardening. My birth flower is a pink rose —
I'm on the phone to Dad before Corrie. He says the affair between Alina and Tyrone is ridiculous —
when she says let me show you how much I love you. As if it's that