and saw that, throughout all these years, it had been clinging on to life only by the slenderest, frailest of roots.
Life was so very precarious. I already knew that, of course. No one knew it better than me.
I know, I know how ridiculous this is, how pathetic, but on some days, the very darkest days,
knowing that the plant would die if I didn’t water it was the only thing that forced me up out of bed.
Still, later that day, I’d come home from work, put the rubbish out, dressed up, made myself go out to the concert.
I went alone. When I met the musician, I needed it to be just me and him, no distractions, no complications.
I needed to make something happen, anything. I couldn’t keep passing through life, over it, under it, around it.
I couldn’t go on haunting the world like a wraith. And things did happen that night.
The first thing was the realization that the musician simply didn’t know I was there.
Why on earth had I ever thought that he would? Stupidity, self-delusion, a feeble connection to reality? Take your pick.
The shame. I had stood right at the front, ridiculously trussed up in new clothes, clownish makeup, tottering on heels.
When he came onstage, I was close enough to see the double knot he’d tied in his shoelaces,
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