Small.
True.
Mark inhales.
“I know.”
I shut my eyes.
Of course he knew.
Of course he did.
“I had my bag packed twice,” I admit.
His exhale is almost inaudible.
“Fuck, Philip.”
“Don’t.”
“No, I’m saying fuck because if I’d known that, I might have physically blocked the front door.”
Despite everything, I laugh.
A deep laugh this time.
“You can’t imprison people in Kent.”
“Says who?”
“The law.”
“Debatable.”
I wipe at my face, annoyed to find actual moisture there.
This is getting embarrassing.
Mark goes quiet again.
Then, softly, “Why didn’t you?”
The question I knew was coming.
The one with no clever answer.
I look around my office.
The desk.
The laptop.
The city outside.
The sensible life I chose because it was stable and logical and comprehensible.
“I was scared,” I say.
