By Sunday morning I knew what I was going to do.
Not dramatically. I didn't lie awake for hours constructing it.
Coffee. Window. The street going about its business a man walking a dog on a very short lead, a delivery rider checking an address twice. Ordinary Sunday. I watched it and the decision just sat there, already made, waiting for me to catch up.
This was the rational choice. I ran through the reasons: fourteen months post-divorce. A fifteen-year gap. A man whose life was primarily based four hundred miles away. My own history with believing in things that then cost me everything. None of this had changed. If anything, the wanting made the risks more urgent, not less.
Saturday night I'd felt something in a restaurant that I wasn't ready for. Something that had arrived without as
