| "You don't talk about it much, do you?" she asked, as we sat on the train from Paris to London. We were already underground, the air pressure making our ears pop as we sped beneath the English Channel. "About what?" I asked. "About the times before new York. About when you were with Victoria." I correctly thought that was the direction that she was going with her inquiries. "Not much to say. We got married, we got divorced, I moved north." "Did you love her?" "I don't know," I answered, honestly. "You don't know? I hope you don't say that about me someday!" she replied, exaggerating a look of worry and shock. "I can assure you that I will never wonder if I loved you or not, and I hope that we never reach a point in which I’d have to question it." "Then how can you not be sure about someone you married? Because I want to know how those kind of things happen... maybe they happened to me, too." "Sometimes there are more factors that come into play than just love. I think that we're pretty lucky." "We are," she agreed. |