Every one of those things had been in front of me.

Not one of them had meant anything on its own.

That is how it works — an affair is not one big lie, it’s four hundred small ones that are each individually plausible, and the horror of the afternoon you find out is not the discovery.

It’s the recalculation.

It’s sitting in a cab watching two years reorganize themselves into a shape you can suddenly see.

At about minute sixteen, Wendy said, without looking at me: