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280 pages, Paperback
First published December 3, 2019
Sometimes I have moments of pure astonishment when I realize that William, it seems, is very sure that he knows all of me. He believes that I am the person he sits across from at dinner every evening, he thinks he understands the woman with whom he lies at night. I suppose this means that I am a good wife. But I cannot think of a single time that I have shared more than the barest surface of my thoughts with him, and keeping myself always in check can sometimes feel so very draining.
Walking home, I have the most peculiar urge to strip my feet bare of their half boots and stockings and feel them firm against the earth. And then, perhaps, to press my entire self to the ground, to inhale and fill my lungs and tether myself with the smells of tree roots and undergrowth and the fresh dampness of decaying matter. I even stop walking, just for a moment, breathe in and out, flex my fingers against the handle of the basket to keep them from flying to my bootlaces.
Sometimes I have moments of pure astonishment when I realize that William, it seems, is very sure that he knows all of me. He believes that I am the person he sits across from at dinner every evening; he thinks he understands the woman with whom he lies at night. I suppose this means I am a good wife. But I cannot think of a single time that I have shared more than the arest surface of my thoughts with him.