If she didn't come back he would have to locate it again: a real self that stretched to his begin and end either side of their shared memories, which had reduced with her every departure and now looked gone forever.
It would be like meeting an old friend he hadn't missed. Who would he be now?
Interests he'd gained in the interim had been maintained for the last two years, though perhaps only out of necessity - tending the borders she'd planted, maintaining standards of hygiene on behalf of a dog she'd begged him for.
All of her hobbies had a legacy; started out as something like good fun but needing looking after. An accumulation of problems. A general amassing of duties.
He could service them no longer, he thought. It was hard enough as it was - this world, via metaphor and abstraction, granting her a staring role in everything, everywhere.
But though he cursed it, he looked for it the more in obvious places: In old photographs and perfume bottles, and her shelffull of the German Romantics that ever needed dusting.
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