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250 pages, Unknown Binding
First published January 1, 2020
In November 2014 I sent an email to some women friends asking for help with packing up the apartment I was moving out of. It had been a couple of months since I'd slept there. They came over with my sisters one Saturday and went through everything, dividing it all up. In a whirlwind of activity, they'd point to things, clothes, kitchen stuff. Even though I was collapsed in a heap on the sofa, I'd say, 'That's mine, that's his'. Sometimes I didn't dare claim something, and so they'd decide for me. At around the same time, I met an Italian man at the Pompidou Centre, who shook my hand with immense seriousness as he introduced himself. His name was Enrico. We went for a drink one evening. On my way to meet him I popped into the apartment, which was filled with boxes and plunged into darkness. I just wanted to clear the corridor quickly. I was wearing headphones. A song came on and I found myself dancing on my own among the packing crates. It turns out it's not always possible to clear things out. Life muddles things up, piles up moments and voices. [42–3]