The division of our joint assets is a stagnant mess with something that looks like progress poking up out of the depths every now and then, but it turns out to be an illusion.
This bridge across the Garonne is the last thing I look at every evening as I sit outside on our quiet patio in Auvillar. At night it's all lit up and I've ventured across the road to it a time or two. Standing on the narrow footpath along its railing is an eerie experience.
Bridges make great metaphors. From here to there. From this to that. Wife to writer.
I'd just like to make my break from Mr. Ex before it's time to tip the boatman for the last ride to the other side.