Ian McEwan

he might have said she was a little horsey in appearance.

but the moment it was made his pulse had leaped and his bleated yes had left his mouth.

Dust, old paper, the scent of soap on his hands, but nothing of her.

By his handsome cheekbones the muscles twitched with the movement, and along his forearms they fanned and shifted in complicated rearrangements under the skin.

Birth, death, and frailty in between.

“Everybody thinks they’re angels just because they look alike, but they’re little brutes.”

Shut up, for goodness’ sake! You really are a tiresome little prima donna. The boys had no clean socks so I took some of yours.”

And here was the ghost of her childhood, diffused throughout the room, to remind her of the limited arc of existence. How quickly the story was over. Not massive and empty at all, but headlong. Ruthless.

All those books, those happy or tragic couples they had never met to discuss! Tristan and Isolde, the Duke Orsino and Olivia (and Malvolio too), Troilus and Criseyde, Mr.

Knightley and Emma, Venus and Adonis. Turner and Tallis.

life and my new friends. I feel I can breathe now. Most of all, I have you to live for. Realistically, there had to be a choice—you or them. How could it be both? I’ve never had a moment’s doubt. I love you. I believe in you completely. You are my dearest one, my reason for life. Cee.”