She loved him, but he was not there. His absence was a wound that never ceased to seep and throb. It was absurd, she told herself. What mattered was the love they felt; whether or not they were in the same room was of no significance. It would not be long before, as physical mass, they were both decomposing underground; so what did it matter if meanwhile their bodies were in different places? How could that possibly be important?
So much did she rely on her rational brain to guide her life that she was angry when it failed her now, when no process of reason could stop her wound from aching?
Sebastian Faulks, A Possible Life (2012)
