The Greek commanders, Nestor, Agamemnon and the rest, could do nothing but wait, unheroically, for the cloud to lift from their champion’s brow. Till it did, they dared not move.

I suppose I knew, even then, that my feelings for David were unreciprocated. But such feelings were complex; one could not easily unmake them. So I stayed longer than was sensible, an artist’s dark-haired mistress, the drunk, the second fiddle, the woman at parties and exhibitions, jagged in her speech, pathetic, rude, waiting to be conferred some order of substantiality.

Phil and I have a make-believe housemate – we call him Allen. Allen is a real jerk. Allen never cleans the bathroom, leaves the fan on when no one’s home, and only half-empties the dishwasher. Allen lets the laundry stay out on the line for so long that all our jeans are sun-faded, and he alone is responsible for the murder of our beloved houseplant, Fernie Sanders.