Surprise Me

I think a relationship is like two stories,” I say at last, feeling my way cautiously through my thoughts. “Like…two open books, pressing together, and all the words mingle into one big, epic story. But if they stop mingling…” I lift my glass for emphasis. “Then they turn into two stories again. And that’s when it’s over.” I clap my hands together, spilling champagne. “The books shut. The End.

grief is long and messy and horrible—but it’s not an illness. And you cope how you cope. There’s no ‘well’ about it.

I'm not quite sure if he's talking to me or to himself, but every word he says feels like a drop of Wise Potion. I want to hear more. I want him to tell me all the answers to life.

Which is just grief, I guess. I've decided that grief is like a newborn baby. It knocks you for six. It takes over your brain with its incessant cry. It stops you sleeping or eating or functioning, and everyone says, "Hang in there, it gets easier." What they don't say is, "Two years on, you'll think it's got easier, but then, out of the blue, you'll hear a certain tune in the supermarket and start sobbing.

If love is easy, you're not doing it right.

But nothing changes if nothing changes. I saw that slogan on a T-shirt the other day, and it really resonated. I've changed. My horizons have shifted, And if I want to keep growing and changing, I need to challenge myself.

Frusture is my word for the exquisite fury that only your husband can give you. Not only are you furious, you feel like he’s doing it all on purpose, in order to torment you.