I believe I am becoming pathetic. I’ll go further, I believe that I am in love with a flower-growing, wood-carving quarryman/carpenter/pig farmer. In fact, I know I am. Perhaps tomorrow I will become entirely miserable at the thought that he doesn’t love me back—may, even, care for Remy—but at this precise moment, I am succumbing to euphoria. My head and stomach feel quite odd.



