I stroke a finger over my own top button, undo it, then let my hand drop with an exaggerated sigh. "It's not quite the same," I declare, "ripping my own clothes off.
The ramifications of the choice I made in July pitch up and bed-in for the night: I let him go at an age when no-one else will want me. I was reckless with my best years. I have nothing to show for them.
