We took the house on the edge. It felt right, the way the garden was all gorse and rock blossoms up to the point it got bitten off by the sea. We walked gingerly in some rooms, unwilling to set off some inevitable tremor, some fatal lullaby that ould pitch us straight into that lurching light. We liked the idea, that is to say, we turned our backs to it and flicked glimpses with mirrors. I guess it was fun. You moved through rooms like water, and each night I packed my things into bags, left nothing hanging. We distracted outselves with improbable hairstyles, with cats that could wriggle out of anything and sit compactly next to apocalypse, licking their paws.