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…the idiot, who now considers herself little better than a whore, spends most of the weekend with a boy she barely knows, has a most delightful Sunday evening with him, and they discuss their relationship status.

Things seem clearer, despite the instability and risk factor, but overall very happy.

And two hours after she goes home, he gets a phone call which (almost but not totally) confirms his emigration to England next year. And then he also decides he is not quite (almost but not totally) ready for another relationship.

And she very nearly went home wearing his jacket. A last leap of the flame of sense before it goes out. Who I was is gone.

These literary quotes can only carry me so far, before I come to a place of silence, where I have no more words. Where I, and my stupid body, stand stupid and vulnerable, waiting for the first bus back into town. I’ve stopped asking for safe trips. I don’t bother with seatbelts. This bus will crash and I will roll out semi-conscious, wounded but nowhere near dead, in fact just strong enough to pull myself to the next bus stop.

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