I didn’t usually let myself be the kind of man who cries, or feels sorry for himself, or wails into the night after a girl. It was no wonder Harriet couldn’t look me in the eyes; I wouldn’t be able to look at me either. I wouldn’t recognise myself, red-eyed and hopeless.
With a cough and a grunt, I cleared the mucus from my throat and propelled it to the concrete in front of me. I started to feel like I was regaining some of my masculinity.I swiped the back of my hand across my eyes, wiping away the mix of rain, tears and sweat.
Harriet didn’t want to see me now, but she had this terrible, and admirable capacity for hearing me out. Regardless of how awful I’d ever been to her, or how much she wanted to hate me for the rest of her life, she always came back around.