against narrative - by rayne fisher-quann
Perhaps it never did snow that August in Vermont; perhaps there never were flurries in the night wind, and maybe no one else felt the ground hardening and summer already dead even as we pretended to bask in it, but that was how it felt to me, and it might as well have snowed, could have snowed, did snow. — Joan Didion, On Keeping A Notebook There is no democracy in any love relation: only mercy. — Gillian Rose, Love’s Work It’s been autumn for longer than usual. Most years, for most people, autumn lasts a few weeks at most; in Toronto, where I used to live with a boy who loved me, it gets cold suddenly, violently. Autumn is always over before you’ve even realized it’s properly begun. But I moved out of our shared apartment at the end of August, and I started writing the essay that would eventually become this one, and it’s been autumn ever since. If this were a story — which, of course, it is — that would mean something. I spent almost three years with David. We had a good story. (We m
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