On the train, we will kiss but not talk. We will drink miniature coffees. We will understand that what is happening is the right thing, and that our lives from now on will not feature half empty beds or frozen loaves of bread.
Our flat will be empty, light, and airy. There will be six cushions, two duvets, a mattress, and three computers. We will eat from Tupperware boxes, streaming old episodes of Parks and Recreation, and talking with our mouths full.
My editor will call to say that the last book I sent him is embarrassing to read. No character building. No plot development. He will suggest that I find a job in data entry. This will be good for you, he will say. The real world.