He was smiling too, the sea wind ruffling his hair. At his temple, a single strand of gray among the black. He was thirty-two and I was nearly twenty-eight. There was so much still to happen, so much happiness to come. The tears came to my eyes. I rummaged in my pocket for the old ruined scarf I used as a handkerchief, the one I’d shown Bridie, but it wasn’t there. I’d left it at Bridie’s house. Never mind. She’d use it as a duster, if I knew her at all. And I did know her, I knew her well, and I was glad to have known her.

I haven’t got much time. I’m backed up into a corner in three jerseys and woolen stockings, on a lambskin rug, and I weigh five stone. Where’s the rest of me gone? At the end of last winter Tom pointed at our shrinking snowman and asked James, “Where’s the rest of him gone?” because there was no puddle of meltwater. James told him that the crystals in the snow had sublimed: they’d gone straight from solid to gas without passing through the liquid stage. Maybe that’s what I’m doing, subliming. It sounds nice—if cold. I was worried I’d scare Tom when I started to dwindle. But he didn’t seem to notice. Perhaps he was choosing not to see me as I am now.

He’s been told, now. We thought it was for the best. He’s very angry with me—he doesn’t want to say good night to me or good morning. If he comes into the bedroom it is to stand looking down at me, hands in pockets, with burning scorn. Well he might. All I can do is thank God for his father. If I know anything in this world, I know that James will not fail him.

—

I’m very thirsty now and water doesn’t quench it, or only for a second or two. As if I’m full of dry dust. I crave the drinks of my childhood, carob juice, guava juice, foaming in glasses from a street seller or juice bar. Hibiscus in a jug full of ice. Licorice root, apricot, mango. James got some mango juice sent from London. It came in tiny tins and tasted of the tin.

Lemon granita.