You remember the moment you made it, the decision that altered dynamics, and there’s nothing to regret, really, because stagnation is Season 8 of The Office – we’d be better off without it.
You never knew you were brazen or capable of it. You censor swear words as you say them, nod your head before meals for blessings that you were never due, but you do it anyway, because repetition is our only constant – hair drying, hair washing, verbal tics, obsessions with men you work with and men you’ve never met and women’s breasts and the way shirts cling or pop off them.
Once, you wanted to mould him to you, make an incision and resew, so you were pieces of a whole because your head told you that was the way things turned out, and you’d rather read the end first anyway, fast forward through filler to get you to the opportune point. But your head also said soulmates were palpable, hearts were more than a symbol and contained bright lights and messages and fortunes and fates.
You thought Bridget Jones was a real person, and you appreciated the intimacy of reading one woman’s diary.
It’s only now, widowed, you’re unpicking every decision, each note you wrote to Charlotte, whispered word to Ally, gift you gave John, morsel of scripture or science you believed, harboured, and you’re wondering whether you’re imaginary afterall because nothing’s had the structure it ought.