He used to stand at my bookcase, reading through the titles. Was he interested in what the books were about? What they said about me? Or had we already run out of things to say to each other?

Once, he laughed and said: “Did you know you have a book here called My year of meat?!”

I smiled and nodded and said: “Yes I did know that,” and squeezed his face.

I guess I should have known then and there that it wasn’t going to work out.