“I prefer Tender Is the Night, though’, and as I spoke, I got a raw jolt in my chest that could only br described as tender, as an image of Fiona, on the Bosphorus ferry, under a lambent soak of light, sweeping her hair out of her face, flickered in my brain. Even wasted she looked so poised and dignified. I loved her I loved her I loved her I wanted to melt into her bones. Her absence now felt like I’d been eaten from the inside.”
