Sorrow wants to know how we met and through whom and whether I’m actually entitled to know her.
‘You see’ she says in her softly voice
,
‘You don’t have a child who is dying
Your partner has not gone terminal
Your clitorus appears to be intact
And even the lump growing from your dog’s foot probably isn’t cancerous.
Furthermore’ she says skim-reading her notes,
‘You drive a car with the top down and eat a chocolate croissant whenever you feel like it. Even during Lent.
Well?’ She says looking over her glasses,
‘Have you anything to add?’
‘Probably not’ is the best I’ve got.
Sorrow looks at me. I look at Sorrow.
Even though my face is wet, it’s clear our meeting’s over.

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