All of us have moments we recall that have been etched – if not burnt – deep into the bark of the tree that is our life… moments, seconds, minutes, hours and sometimes days.

For him it was ten days, nineteen years ago. A mindless and happy rush across Iberia with her that were oxygen to his soul and felt like going home.

That battered copy of Paul Bowles’ edition of short stories – crumpled at the bottom of his pack – she’d tucked into with relish at given moments.

Those bitter last moments at the train station in Valencia, as they sobbed into each other’s shoulders. 

“I want you to read this story” she said of a page she had dog-eared in his book. The train was half-way to Madrid before he had the courage to reach for the touchstone she had left him with.

The story concerns a couple – perhaps in their middle age – trekking up the Atlas Mountains of Morocco.  The descriptions are idyllic as they meander up goat-tracks, led by natives, on the back of mules. On page nine, his mount slips and rolls down the mountain to its death leaving him hanging from a slab of rock by his fingernails. She dismounts and heads over to him, looking him hard in the eyes, before kicking him hard in the hands to send him tumbling down the slope.

Are you a bit confused?