Eva’s thirtieth birthday arrived wrapped in beige linen and dutiful affection. Her boyfriend, Mark, had booked the same Italian restaurant they always went to, the one with the good breadsticks but lighting so bright you could perform surgery. He’d given her a practical handbag with compartments for everything, kissed her forehead with closed lips, and fallen asleep by ten-fifteen with his hand resting on her hip like a paperweight.
She lay there, staring at the ceiling, feeling the weight of that hand, the gentle snore, the terrible, creeping silence inside her own body. Her skin felt hungry. Not for a forehead kiss. Not for a paperweight. For something that didn’t have a neat compartment.
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