The Letter in My Purse
I want to be honest about that, because I turned it over many times in the days that followed and it was always true.
The worst part was not her dark hair or her dress or her youth.
The worst part was her hand, resting lightly and comfortably over Julian’s on the white tablecloth, the casual ownership of that gesture, the way it spoke of a hundred previous dinners just like this one.
I want to describe what that recognition felt like, because it was not, in that first moment, the clean sharp pain a person might expect.
It was slower and stranger than that, a kind of vertigo, the floor of the ordinary evening tilting under me.
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