I want that recorded because it is the one decent thing I did in the whole fourth year.

I sat in that airport with a man who was cheerfully unaware that a photograph of his forearm had ended a marriage, and I did not put that on him, and I said something about the flight and I went and sat in a bathroom stall for about twenty minutes.

That was the January of the fourth year.

So the honest arithmetic is this: I knew I had been wrong for three years before I got on that porch.

Three years, eleven months and about a week.