Yet she likes complications. She wishes she could turn and say: I like people who unbalance me.
I'm a complete and utter fiction. Then again, we all are.
The repeated lies become history, but they don't necessarily become the truth.
There is always room for at least two truths.
The tunnels of our lives connect, coming to daylight at the oddest moments, and then plunge us into the dark again. We return to the lives of those who have gone before us, a perplexing möbius strip until we come home, eventually, to ourselves.
I guess this is what marriage is, or was, or could be. You drop the mask. You allow the fatigue in. You lean across and kiss the years because they're the things that matter.