Empty

Sunday August 29th

Day 130

I’m writing this in bed, way past midnight. There are shouty voices in the street outside. I wonder if my husband can see the same moon as me from the window of his gite in Provence. I hope he’s sleeping.

The hot, too sweet cocoa and shortbread biscuits I had earlier on the sofa have filled me up. But the big space beside me in the bed is echoey empty.