‘It rained furiously that day, the monsoons raking across the land, an electric storm tearing up the sky, and Jenni was wearing a green men’s shirt and shorts, and the rain had soaked it onto her like one long changing and glistening fish-skin. The quad was empty of people, they were huddled around the sides in the darkness – the lights had gone. That night, I told her what I thought was the truth. On my knees I swore it. That my world had mapped all its functions to her, to this one gravitational centre, that there was a centre missing to my orbits. That love is usage and syntax, and without her, it was now a ragged lace fringe around a large nothing. I honestly don’t know why I said all that, because it wasn’t all true. Maybe, I just hadn’t tried hard enough and so I kept returning to the urge of the lodestone. I was tired of the cold desert and hungry for love that wasn’t a passing sensation, and I would have said anything to feel safe.’
The Angel’s Share, pg 173
