She was careful as she picked across the rubble to where he lay gasping, spurting his life. “If you thought me delicate then, I was.  Not fragile, no, that was what you made me.”  She touched him sweetly, leaving the scent of rose and resentment behind her.

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Love wasn’t something we planned for, you must understand this. It swept in uninvited, a great wind that destroyed our taste for the past.

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Last night, I had a dream. In a satellite graveyard Che appeared; fierce eyes under heavy ponderous brows. J’accuse! I was comfortable, complacent Middle-Class with delusions of oppression, said the finger pointed at my new shiny shoes. I hung my head but secretly sulked.

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He’d fretted long: hand-wringing, brow-wiping. In the end it blurted out. She froze, spoon of applesauce halfway to her mouth. She’d never been so beautiful; he’d never felt so ill.