Pride 2016. Her facebook page rolls up in my newsfeed. Her face bunched up in a selfie with Mrs B.
’17 years together. Happy Pride!’
I hover. Heartbeat rises. Then I click ‘like’.
Then another. She’s in a pub with Mrs B watching Mrs B’s team play football.
‘The things I do for love.’ She declares. I don’t ‘like’ this one. Even in an attempt at magnanimity, that would look too false; I’ve always hated sport.
A thousand thoughts cross my mind. That ’17 years’ minus the two with me, and the two with the famous lesbian novelist, and the six months she spent with my ‘heterosexual’ married boss, does not leave Mrs B and B with ‘17 years‘… But we’re post-Brexit, post–truth now. Everything is just another discourse!
Why does it hurt so much to know that the person who was your lover continues to exist without you? That she enjoys experiences with someone else? That you are missing out on her life which continues so richly without you?