“One month. Two months. Three months.”
“Yes.”
“You went back every month.”
“Yes.”
I swallow.
“Why?” I ask.
Mark lets out a slow breath.
I hear wind faintly on his end.
Is he outside?
For some reason that matters.
“I like the house,” he says.
I close my eyes.
“That is such complete bullshit.”
He laughs softly.
“Yeah.”
My grip on the phone tightens.
“Then why?”
A seagull cries faintly through his speaker.
Definitely outside.
Whitstable again.
Of course.
Mark is in Whitstable while I am asking him why he keeps going to Whitstable.
My life has become offensively symbolic.
There is a long pause.
Long enough that I think he might not answer.
Then he says, “Because it was good there.”
I lean one hand against the window.
“That’s not very specific.”
“No.”
“Mark.”
