Ninety eight percent of cells in the human body are replaced in a ten year cycle. Hardly any of my skin or heart is the same skin or heart I had ten years ago. Yet it retains old characteristics – a birthmark here, a scar there. Some percent of the time, I rankle against my marriage, am irritated by the sound of him chewing his food, his tugging at the duvet, or the way he leaves his clothes. So when he’s away, I revel in the solitude. A tidy house, a whole bed to sprawl in – but strange the relief I feel when his key turns in the door.