It was the kind of break-up that leaves a man for dead. I stayed up late every night and drank bargain-bin Merlot from the bottle, watching terrorist attacks and natural disasters unfold on rolling news channels. Friends were remote figures in distant rooms, whether they whispered consolation or told me to get a grip. I was desolate, a condemned building.
Later that year, while someone new stroked my skin and kissed my mouth, that rubble was a pinprick in the distance, new rafters around me. I prepared myself for the next ‘We need to talk …’
“I’ve never figured out why I write, but I definitely feel better having written.” – the writer