One of those lukewarm September days. Our stoop trapped the heat from the sun and I stood there for some time, surveying our front path. Later I went to a café around the corner to sit outside with a coffee and read. A man sat at an adjacent table, drinking orange juice and smoking a cigarette.
“That’s not very cheery reading,” he said. “A book about the Somme.”
“Well, no, it isn’t,” I said.
It is a photograph of the future, of the future’s view of the past, I read. I remembered how last night, jokingly, I had said that the past was the future, or was it that the future is the past? And we had laughed, remembering the time we went to Devon and drank too much homemade cider out of a jerrycan and played cards all evening.
Later I went for a swim. For the first time in nearly a year I had the sense, as I was doing laps, that I could just keep going, indefinitely, or at least for longer than my mind thought possible.