Ten minutes past the Spar, there is nothing. Roads snake their way through fields where livestock used to roam, and although you know this can’t be true, the clouds are stationary over the horizon. Maybe they’re spending so much energy rationing the sunlight that they no longer have it in them to move with the wind. Maybe the wind has gone to London, too.
But still, you drive, or you don’t, because you never thought you needed to learn. The point is this is where you are now, and you hate it. You know that you should feel a sense of belonging to something else so out of time and purpose, but resentment just seems to come so naturally to the two of you, and it has a habit of sticking around. It will be dark soon, and of course, there are no streetlights this far from the post office. It is so cold, and it is beautiful.