I once read a book and threw it away. That was twenty years ago, and I’ve regretted it ever since. Each chapter was a letter to the author’s seven lovers, and I’m thinking about doing the same.

My relationships have tended to be long, and as one lover left, the next one came along, and that means there will only be five chapters.

There is more mileage writing to the ones I really wanted, never managed to get, and who never wanted me.

These were the ones I couldn’t stop thinking about, who scarred me, whom I idolised without really seeing them as they were, as individuals with flaws and undesirable characteristics.

I remember them as the ones I loved, and hated, because they weren’t interested.