conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Give me a description for a story titled Before the Poison about Brilliant, Globe, Mail with the genre: Mystery, Thriller & Suspense, Thrillers & Suspense.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: Brilliant. ( Globe and Mail on Before the Poison )
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Give me the first two paragraphs for this story.. Start with the sentence 'Before the Poison
  See how easily distracted I am by memories of Laura? These are the blind alleys I suddenly find myself wandering down, the cul-de-sacs of lost love, where the grief waits with its sharp blade, jabs at me all of a sudden like a mugger in the night and makes my eyes burn'.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: Before the Poison
  See how easily distracted I am by memories of Laura? These are the blind alleys I suddenly find myself wandering down, the cul-de-sacs of lost love, where the grief waits with its sharp blade, jabs at me all of a sudden like a mugger in the night and makes my eyes burn. These are the deserted plazas of the heart, my very own boulevard of broken dreams. Get a grip, you sad old bastard, get a grip.
  I was standing outside the bank a couple of hours later, getting in the way of the people queuing for the cash dispensers, when I saw Heather Barlow.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Give me five more paragraphs.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: I put my hands to my head and groaned. 'Oh, my God, no.' It was the most recent movie Dave and I had done together, a couple of biggish names, including Dave's wife Melissa, a bunch of young hopefuls, and a very old-fashioned score to suit an old-fashioned atmospheric thriller. There were chases, love scenes, fear, panic, creepy moments, sudden reversals, unexpected climaxes, all mirrored in the music. It wasn't exactly done by rote, but it hadn't taken a great deal of originality or soul-searching. Which was just as well, as I hadn't been able to muster any originality or soul-searching in the months after Laura's death, when I had written it. Definitely not one of my favourites, but as it happened, it was a big hit. The American public had seemed to enjoy it, and it had done extremely well at the box office. It had only just been released in the UK.
  I must have blushed because she laughed and touched my arm. 'Don't worry. I'm only teasing. I won't molest you. I just think it would be really cool to go and see a movie with the guy who wrote the music, that's all. Won't you indulge me? Just this once.'
  Heather laughed and dug her fork into the salad. 'That's it. Movies. Or the expectation of movies. Anyway, I managed to get away with my virtue intact, you'll be glad to hear.'
  I laughed. One of the things I liked about Heather, I realised, was that she made me laugh. Laura was the only other woman I had known who had been able to do that. Conventional wisdom has it that women like men who make them laugh, but I can vouch that it works the other way, too. 'I didn't doubt it for a moment,' I said. 'But did you get any useful information? Did he give up the goods for a... for a what?'
  We nursed our cappuccinos and discussed the film. Heather remained genuine in her enthusiasm, and I was just as genuine in my disdain, though I toned it down for her sake. She didn't know that I'd written most of the music by rote in a haze of alcohol, pills and self-loathing after Laura's death, and she didn't need to know.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Give me the last four paragraphs.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: Whatever our war experiences, Matron concluded, it was now our God-given duty to be young ladies, housewives, sweethearts and mothers again, not unrecognisable figures slithering around in the mud and blood of a casualty clearing station, or lying in the filth and squalor of a Japanese POW camp. Our loved ones did not want to hear or know about these things. If they did, they would never look at us in the same way again; we would become pariahs.
  We had a role and a duty to perform in society, and in order to do so, we had to put the last five years behind us and mould ourselves into the image of the feminine again: the wife, the mother. That was what our world needed now, and that was our role in it. The men would get all the glory, as usual, Matron said, to knowing smiles all around, and this time we should let them have it. I glanced at Dorothy beside me, and she rolled her eyes. I smiled.
  Later, after the farewells and the promises to write, clutching my small suitcase in one hand and my travel pass in the other, I walked through the park in the rain towards the railway station. Raindrops dripped from the bare branches. What a very English November day it was, I thought, and I felt a great surge of love for my country, for the future. Perhaps Matron was right. We needed to lock the memories away and get on with our lives. We needed to rebuild, to look forward, not behind.
  The train stood waiting at the platform, puffing steam into the drizzle. I settled back in my seat to watch the landscape go by and opened my journal. In a few hours I will arrive at Darlington. Ernest will be waiting for me at the station. We will get into the car and drive back to Kilnsgate, to home. There, my future will begin.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Delete the last sentence.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: Whatever our war experiences, Matron concluded, it was now our God-given duty to be young ladies, housewives, sweethearts and mothers again, not unrecognisable figures slithering around in the mud and blood of a casualty clearing station, or lying in the filth and squalor of a Japanese POW camp. Our loved ones did not want to hear or know about these things. If they did, they would never look at us in the same way again; we would become pariahs.
  We had a role and a duty to perform in society, and in order to do so, we had to put the last five years behind us and mould ourselves into the image of the feminine again: the wife, the mother. That was what our world needed now, and that was our role in it. The men would get all the glory, as usual, Matron said, to knowing smiles all around, and this time we should let them have it. I glanced at Dorothy beside me, and she rolled her eyes. I smiled.
  Later, after the farewells and the promises to write, clutching my small suitcase in one hand and my travel pass in the other, I walked through the park in the rain towards the railway station. Raindrops dripped from the bare branches. What a very English November day it was, I thought, and I felt a great surge of love for my country, for the future. Perhaps Matron was right. We needed to lock the memories away and get on with our lives. We needed to rebuild, to look forward, not behind.
  The train stood waiting at the platform, puffing steam into the drizzle. I settled back in my seat to watch the landscape go by and opened my journal. In a few hours I will arrive at Darlington. Ernest will be waiting for me at the station. We will get into the car and drive back to Kilnsgate, to home.