The scar she’d left her was so deep that it may take a thousand million years to heal. She couldn’t pretend like nothing had happened. She couldn’t shut her feelings, like how you shut a window blind; once you did it, all lights from the outside would be swept away from the room. It had taken her years to acknowledge the fact that she was unwanted; a subject of shame for her mother to sink in. And for sure, it would take her more than nine years to forget it all, in one go.
I am not the kind of girl who trusts a man to tell her everything she needs to know in his own due time, so I did some research on my sire. You can take the girl out of the library, but you can’t take the neurotic, compulsively curious librarian out of the girl.
I think there must have been some other girl printed somewhere in his heart, for he was a man of love and his wife was not a woman to show her feelings.
Was she on some sort of Candid Camera version of This is Your Sucky Love Life?
I can see,’ Miss Emily said, ‘that it might look as though you were simply pawns in a game. It can certainly be looked at like that. But think of it. You were lucky pawns. There was a certain climate and now it’s gone. You have to accept that sometimes that’s how things happen in the world. People’s opinions, their feelings, they go one way, then the other. It just so happens you grew up at a certain point in this process.’
‘It might be just some trend that came and went,’ I said. ‘But for us, it’s our life.
You were deliberately planned, specially gifted, and lovingly placed on this earth by God. In a world that decides your worth by the clothes you wear or the sports you play, let me tell you something-you are valuable because God created you.
Durand smiles. There is nothing behind the smile except perhaps another smile, repeating ad infinitum into the distance.
‘Of course,’ he says.
I wonder, though… what would it be like? To be that close to a boy and have him see all of you, no holding back. Would it be scary only for a second or two, or would it be scary the whole time? What if I didn’t like it at all? Or what if I liked it too much? It’s a lot to think about.
I want to feel embarrassed by my desperation but I’m too busy feeling desperate.
She had her own barometer for knowing when a man was getting too close: as soon as he felt comfortable enough to help himself to something in her refrigerator, he was history.
Filching leftover was simply too domestic for her to stomach. A man might as well say, “I’m hungry and I’m taking your food, woman.” First he’d be foraging for food in the fridge, next he’d be expecting her to cook for him, replace buttons on his shirt, and give up her job to have babies that looked like him.