Because that wanting does not switch off when the papers come through.
It does not switch off at six months, or at a year, or when you have redecorated the bedroom.
It sits there quietly for two more years, running things from underneath.
And it will have you buying a dress, and borrowing a man, and driving forty minutes to a wedding to prove a point —
to somebody who should not have had an opinion left for you to prove anything to.
Four times, that woman asked me.
Eleven hundred dollars and four weeks. That was the entire price.
And eleven years of my own handwriting was sitting in a company archive about four miles from my own house the entire time, and it took a friend four months of evenings and a cardboard box at somebody else's wedding to get it in front of me —
because that was the only door I had left open anywhere.
