Raise ravens, and they'll take your eyes out

She remembers dissecting an eyeball at school. Year 10. One eyeball between four students. The optic nerve still attached like a stringy umbilical cord. The whole class reduced to squeamish squawking and nervous joking. 

'You're looking for the lens,' Mr Garcia shouted above the din. 'The lens.'

She was the one with the scalpel - barely sharp enough to get through the tough exterior, but she persevered and, eventually, there it was: a tiny, transparent oval, harder than she'd expected it to be. Olly snatched it from her and held it up to his own eye.

'Doesn't work,' he said.

'Idiot.' She took it back. Years later, she'll remember this, the feel of the small, perfectly useless lens resting in the curve of her palm, and Olly, blustering and showing off on the other side of the desk. It had worn off over the years - he'd lost some of his energy. It was as though something had hardened inside of him, until he was the man with bags under his eyes and a cynical take on the world who she grunted at over the breakfast table and made small talk with at the end of the day. 

They might last another ten years, twenty even. They might reach retirement age together. They might.