The Timeless

Sometimes he could seem timeless, though I caught only glimpses of this.
He could find in reading a book a sense of fulfillment that always escaped me. Evenings of red wine and Eastern European literature, interspersed with staring out of the window at the now lost back garden at a certain tree. We called it the Magpie Tree because we had once seen magpies there, and we were superstitious, though weren't sure why.
When I was at the flat, I would drift from my small, shadowy room to the large living room, the kitchen. down to the garden, back again, up to the attic, rattling around. It was only when hungover I could find a sense of peace at being there - despite the fact that it was the happiest place I've lived. Time would always press in on me. I was jealous that he could find an eternity in a bottle of wine, a whole religion in a book he bought at Waterstones on some lost Sunday after Christmas.
This was what I thought anyway and is probably not true, and I never asked him, because in his timelessness I might find my own, even though I never did.