Today I was woken by the postman. I trundled about the house in my dressing gown and pondered putting on the heating. On a whim, I bought a ticket to see Laura Marling sing in Westminster Hall. I worked on a report and booked an appointment and ran in the park. My day was quiet and punctuated with rain.
I had dinner alone, sat opposite a woman who wanted desperately to speak to me. This new life I’ve made, it’s a quiet one. I’ve begun to prefer being alone.
I go to the concert and try not to be irritated by the people younger than myself, who are doing things that young people do at concerts. I don’t appreciate being jostled. Maybe I’m in a mood. Maybe I’ll go live in a library. If there are any left.
I mostly think while the support act of young, ernest men in collared shirts play, that I want to be alone and eat onions and listen to folk music and look away from people trying to make conversation with me. It occurs to me that today, I have stopped loving A. I know that if we were still seeing one another and he were here with me, he would not put his arm round me. It hurts less to think this now.
Walking home, past the Houses of Parliament, over Westminster Bridge. The London Eye lit blue, reflected in the Thames, I remember listening to ‘Goodbye England’ in February of this year before I knew I could stay forever and crying out of fear.
This slight, pale, shy woman, who sings with such resonance, her words pushing through me, into my chest, clinging to my heart, forcing single tears down my right cheek.
Big Ben chimes ten.