A moment later she heard the toilet flush. Then she heard gargling. It seemed to be a bit noisier than necessary.
‘Are you all right?’ Dan asked, when he came into the bedroom. His voice, she realised, didn’t sound like she remembered.
It sounded emptier. A bit colder. Maybe it was tiredness. Maybe it was stress. Maybe it was beer.
Maybe it was marriage. Maybe it was something else.
It was hard to remember, exactly, what he had sounded like before. What he had been like, precisely.
But that was the nature of memory. At university she had done an essay drily titled ‘The Principles of Hobbesian Memory and Imagination’.
Thomas Hobbes had viewed memory and imagination as pretty much the same thing,
and since discovering that she had never entirely trusted her memories.
Outside the window the streetlamp’s yellow glow illuminated the desolate village road.
‘Nora? You’re acting strange. Why are you just standing in the middle of the room?
Are you getting ready for bed or are you doing some kind of standing meditation?’
He laughed. He thought he was funny. He went over to the window and pulled the curtains.
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