She sat up and knew she must look terrible after sleeping on the carpet
in a baggy Cure T-shirt (which she recognised) and tartan pyjama bottoms (which she didn’t).
She felt her face and it was creased from where she had been lying, and her hair – which was longer in this life – felt dirty and bedraggled.
She tried to make herself look as presentable as it was possible to look in the two seconds
before the arrival of a man she simultaneously slept with every night and also hadn’t ever slept with.
Schrödinger’s husband, so to speak. And then, suddenly, there he was.
The Perfect Life
Ash’s gangly handsome boyishness had only been modestly dented by fatherhood.
If anything, he looked healthier than he had done on her doorstep and, like then, he was wearing running gear –
though here the clothes seemed a bit fancier and more expensive, and he had some kind of fitness tracker attached to his arm.
He was smiling and holding two cups of coffee, one of which was for Nora.
She wondered how many coffees they had shared together, since the first.
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