Recovered from the exertions of your wedding night, lover? And the honeymoon?
Of course. Tell me next time you’re in Montreal.
Jane, what the fuck happened? What did I do? Tell me.
—Nothing. It’s not you. I have to be done.
—I can’t do this. I can’t be—his. Yours. And now the other. I can’t. I have to be done.
I don’t understand. But you know I won’t chase. I’m gone.
—Go. I’ll miss you. But please go.
Lover. Are you all right?
—I’m alive. Don’t fucking call me that.
More new baby pics have made it my way. Congratulations, lover. You look happy.
—A) Don’t call me that. B) I am. C) Still an evolutionary dead-end?
Is that an indirect way of telling me to fuck off?
Gone. I am happy for you. Truly.
Love the new look. Hot.
Knowing you’re hot—also hot.
—Not for you.
—Happy birthday and all that.
Thank you. Lover. How are you?
Will you come see me next time you’re in Montreal?
—I have four children. I don’t jet set very much these days. Are you ever in YYC?
Rarely. But sometimes. Is that an invitation?
I have a new client who will have me flying into YYC now and then. If that happens—will you see me?
Maybe. That’s how it begins.
INSIDE INSIGHT: The above excerpt is how the book begins… but it was the second-last section I wrote. The goal was to capture a decade of history and estrangement, in 220 words. Does it work?