I long to sit and just be quiet with you; to have time to drink tea and make plans and dream together again. The time we had was filled with a hundred things that left no time for time. And I was sad and chronically tired and sometimes you would stroke my hair softly as I fell asleep at 8pm.
There’ll be time for us, you said:
We’ll do it in the time Russian heiresses spend stretched out on yachts reading Foucault.
We’ll do it in the time umbrella manufacturers spending watching the weather channel.
While Japanese school girls compose mobile phone novels on bullet trains; while lawyers read the fine print; while housewives paint their toenails.
You promised me there’d be time.
The End of Seeing, Christy Collins
This novella is breaking my heart.