I’m still looking for that street. The one I found that night when I sat straight up next to him in bed and knew, I had to tell him before it got light, otherwise I never would. I shook him awake and even as I was saying it I was thinking this isn’t me, this is someone else talking, but they tumbled out those words anyway, like something out of a poorly scripted film I told him; ‘this isn’t working, this’ll never work, it’s too big for us to get over’, and my chest was crushing all the air and the sound out of me quicker than I could put it back in and I’d expected him to sit up too, or look surprised, or protest, but he just said ‘can’t it wait until later, I’ve got a meeting in the morning, I need to sleep’, and then all foetus like he turned on his side away from what I’d become.

I pulled my clothes on from the heap next to the bed. Outside the sun was up already. We’d only just moved. I didn’t know the neighbourhood. I wandered. Neat gridlines connected the streets. Then I came upon it. A street wider than the rest. Pink morning light filtering through the trees. Right there in the middle of the street stood a band of foxes. Five of them with the biggest in the middle. I stopped. They started me down with their marble cold eyes. Fleetingly I wondered if they might eat me. I wasn’t all that big.

I turned round. And went back.

I’m not sure why I remembered that today.