He came out of his car, and I came out of mine. I frisked myself for pain, the flooding-in of memories. I know every inch of his person; my eyes wandered over jacket and trousers, the ancient wallet and the trusted wristwatch. Everything as I knew it.

When I tie up the numerous strands of life as we lived it, all those years ago, I am not really sure about what to expect.

It is not hurt. Sorrow or regret. It is not resentment, and - in a way - it is not even love.

I have smoothed over the sharp edges of loss and despair, and managed to hold on to what made me feel alive then.

I feel affection.

A long lunch with the man who strung up my soul and left it to dry out.

And all I can feel is warm affection.

There is hope. If I can forgive him, I can forgive myself. If I can do that, I might even eventually love myself, the UNCHANGEABLE segments of me.

I might manage to replicate that... apply it to fresher wounds, younger hurt. To accept and move on. Never understand, and never try to change it. Just accept.