The Book of Strange New Things, the sad and beautiful novel he’d written through his wife’s long illness. There was an avant-garde musician, and images projected on the wall.
One was an eerie black and white negative of a skeleton, floating like Ophelia into reeds. I knew his wife had died. I overheard someone say ‘two months’.
I was then a widow of two years. His raw face and the way his hair was almost standing on end were very familiar to me: I’d been there.
He looked like he shouldn’t have been allowed out alone.Towards the end, he read some of the poems he’d been writing, about Eva’s death.
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