Ruth had always thought, when she read the classics of which she was so fond, that the idea of feeling as if the world was falling apart was a cliché – and a bad cliché, at that, of the sort perpetuated by over-dramatic writers and their faithful imitators.
Now?
Now she feels as if the world is falling apart. Piece by piece, it's crumbling, slipping through her fingers until all she's left with is the dust of something that had been... Never mind what it had been. Thinking of that is dangerous, now, stirring up a wind that threatens to scatter the dust she's desperately clutching on to.
The fact is that he's gone, and it's just as terrible and just as painful as it was when she was the one saying goodbye all those years ago. Up until today, there had been a hope, however naive, however foolish, that somehow everything would be okay; that they could slip out of whatever net had been cast to catch them and finally live the lives they'd paid for with so many years of heartache and service.
Naive. Oh, now the word fits her.
Tears stinging at her eyes yet again, she stares at the bottle of wine on the table next to her. It's almost empty, the few inches of liquid left in the bottom a silent affirmation that yes, she's dealing with this perfectly well, and no, she's not one of those people who needs to numb their pain with too much alcohol.
Her glass is empty and her head is aching, pounding with too much thought and too many tears.
How did she become this?
When did her life stop revolving around her novels and become one instead, an inevitable, creeping tragedy of the sort she'd relished in her younger years?
She leans back, resting her head against the back of the armchair, and stares uncomprehending at the ceiling. Even her thoughts run in clichés. It isn't fair, she thinks. She hates him and loves him and it's become so hard to separate the two that she thinks maybe it's just all love.
Not that it matters, any more. All she can do now is pretend; build the world back up with the force of her mind until it's something resembling what she used to know.
Because the truth is, she realises, this isn't one of those tragedies where everybody dies. This is far, far worse.
This is a tragedy where everyone lives and everyone loses, and she's not sure her imagination is strong enough to pretend otherwise.
Maybe this really is the end, the last page of their story, and if she was reading it maybe she'd say that it was poetic. Bleak. Even beautiful.
As it is, she loves him too much to see anything other than that. She loves him. It's the dust she's clinging to, the one thing of her world she's saved, the one thing she'll never have to pretend.
She pours the rest of the wine.