There was a desperate undercurrent to our marriage--a feeling of being in a dream from which I couldn't seem to awaken. A nagging sense that my life, laid out so neatly like the clothes Deirdre left on my divan, was no longer my own.

She smiles at our husband as she moves, and he blushes, overcome by her beauty. But I know what her smile really means...Her smile is her revenge.

Do you know what my father used to say?" I ask her. "He used to say that songs had a heart. A crescendo that can make all your blood rush from your head to your toes.

You can't be afraid. You can be sad if you like. You can be angry. But it's the fear that'll freeze you in place.

There's a hazy smile on her lips that won't go away, and her hair is a mess. It's like a brushfire filled with casualties.

It's best to let her go," he says. No, no, that's wrong. It's never right to give up on someone.

I start trying to stay unconscious. The problem with this is that no amount of willpower can change the reality.