24

A. comes down again. It feels wrong somehow, and to escape the feeling all I can come up with is to break up with her: I watch, relieved, as she trudges away across the campus. But then I work myself into a lather of maudlin angst for several days, listening to One Year by Colin Blunstone umpteen times, before writing to her to say that I was wrong, I didn’t mean it, I’m so sorry, let’s get back together. She writes back, guardedly, saying Okay then, but it makes it hard to trust you entirely if you can do that.