In fact, she wanted it more than anything. “Okay. I’d like to see the life where I kept Voltaire indoors. My Voltaire.”
“I’d like the life where I didn’t try and kill myself and where I was a good cat owner and I didn’t let him out onto the road last night.”
“I’d like that life, just for a little while. That life exists, doesn’t it?”
The Only Way to Learn Is to Live
Nora looked around and found herself lying in her own bed. She checked her watch. It was one minute past midnight.
She switched on her light. This was her exact life, but it was going to be better, because Voltaire was going to be alive in this one.
Her real Voltaire. But where was he? “Volts?” She climbed out of bed. “Volts?”
She looked all over her flat and couldn’t find him anywhere. The rain patted against the windows – that much hadn’t changed.
Her new box of anti-depressants was out on the kitchen unit. The electric piano stood by the wall, silent. “Voltsy?”
There was her yucca plant and her three tiny potted cacti, there were her bookshelves,
with exactly the same mix of philosophy books and novels and untried yoga manuals and rock star biographies and pop science books.
An old National Geographic with a shark on the cover and a five-month-old copy of Elle magazine,
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