The customs officer at London’s Heathrow Airport glances at my picture and up at my face repeatedly. Seriously, how long do you need to check a picture? Finally, he hands me my passport and waves me away.I’ve never been to London before. But I am too anxious and I overlook my surroundings. Focused on my destination, I hail a cab.“Dorchester Hotel, please.” I sit in the back of the vehicle and am bothered by the driver who is on the wrong side of the car and driving on the wrong side of the road. God, how can the British do this?The twenty-minute drive allows me time to mentally organize my thoughts and file what I do not want to convey to Portia. What do I really want to tell her? For the last few weeks, my life has been hell. When Portia left, her face never indicated she was upset. I called her the following day and found it strange when she did not answer the phone or call me back. For a full week, I called her repeatedly, leaving voicemails and text messages. She never replied.I called Stefan and, though he was his polite self, I noticed a distant tone in his voice.
