None of This is True

A life lived in fast-forward and now, apparently, she should peak and crest and then come slowly, contentedly down the other side, but it doesn’t feel as if there ever was a peak, rather an abyss formed of trauma that she keeps circling and circling with a knot of dread in the pit of her stomach

the smell of him – what was it? A sort of solid smell, like cars, like books, like trees.

He’s talking loudly in that way that some people do, as if he thinks everyone in the world wants to hear his business