“It’s only once you're married that you really start to think about death.”

I watched her head to the train. She was dodging raindrops still dripping from the limes. After about 100 metres she turned and waved, as if for a short time she’d forgotten me, and then the recollection of our meeting had crossed her mind again suddenly. I waved back, of course. I didn’t think then that it would be the last time.

It was only when I was writing the invitations for my own wedding a few years later that I thought again about her words. How she’d never before considered if she’d be buried beside her partner. “Can you imagine being possessive even in your grave?” she’d laughed.

There wasn’t very much of them left to bury, by all accounts, by the time they’d dismembered the wreckage.

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