Dept. Of Speculation by Jenny Offill Read Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Jenny Offill
face, naming every part of it. Later, when I put her in the crib, she calledme back. First, she asked for water, then for milk, then for kisses. “It hurts. Don’t go,” she said. “What does? What hurts, sweetie?” She paused. “My eyelashes.”
Some women make it look so easy, the way they cast ambition off like an expensive coat that no longer fits.
Stop writing I love you
, said the note my daughter wrote over the one I left in her lunchbox. For a long time, she had asked for a note like that every day, but now a week after turning six, she puts a stop to it. I feel odd, strangely light-headed when I read the note. It is a feeling from a long time ago, the feeling of someone breaking up with me suddenly. My husband kisses me. “Don’t worry, love. Really, it’s nothing.”
There is a husband who requires mileage receipts, another who wants sex at three a.m. One who forbids short haircuts, another who refuses to feed the pets. I would never put up with that, all the other wives think. Never.
But my agent has a theory. She says every marriage is jerry-rigged. Even the ones that look reasonable from the outside are held together inside with chewing gum and wire and string.
So now this woman at the playground is telling me about how her husband rifles through her purse for receipts. If he finds one for the wrong kind of ATM, he posts it on the refrigerator, highlighted in red. She shrugs. “He can’t help it.”
What exactly am I waiting for her to say? That she married a fool? That her house is built on ashes? And here I am, the lucky one for once. Such blinding good fortune to have married him.
The wives have requirements too, of course. What they require is this:
unswerving obedience. Loyalty unto death
.
My husband sits in our kitchen and hand-sews a book. I hope that when it goes through the post office no machine will touch it.
22
How Are You?
soscaredsoscaredsoscaredsoscaredsoscared
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The wife is praying a little. To Rilke, she thinks.
It is important if someone asks you to remember one of your happiest times to consider not only the question but also the questioner. If the question is asked by someone you love, it is fair to assume that this person hopes to feature in this recollection he has called forth. But you could, if you were wrong and if you had a crooked heart, forget this most obvious and endearing thing and instead speak of a time you were all alone, in the country, with no one wanting a thing from you, not even love. You could say that was your happiest time. And if you did this then telling about this happiest of times would cause the person you most want to be happy to be unhappy.
In the year 134 B.C., Hipparchus observed a new star. Until that moment he had believed steadfastly in the permanence of them. He then set out to
Some women make it look so easy, the way they cast ambition off like an expensive coat that no longer fits.
Stop writing I love you
, said the note my daughter wrote over the one I left in her lunchbox. For a long time, she had asked for a note like that every day, but now a week after turning six, she puts a stop to it. I feel odd, strangely light-headed when I read the note. It is a feeling from a long time ago, the feeling of someone breaking up with me suddenly. My husband kisses me. “Don’t worry, love. Really, it’s nothing.”
There is a husband who requires mileage receipts, another who wants sex at three a.m. One who forbids short haircuts, another who refuses to feed the pets. I would never put up with that, all the other wives think. Never.
But my agent has a theory. She says every marriage is jerry-rigged. Even the ones that look reasonable from the outside are held together inside with chewing gum and wire and string.
So now this woman at the playground is telling me about how her husband rifles through her purse for receipts. If he finds one for the wrong kind of ATM, he posts it on the refrigerator, highlighted in red. She shrugs. “He can’t help it.”
What exactly am I waiting for her to say? That she married a fool? That her house is built on ashes? And here I am, the lucky one for once. Such blinding good fortune to have married him.
The wives have requirements too, of course. What they require is this:
unswerving obedience. Loyalty unto death
.
My husband sits in our kitchen and hand-sews a book. I hope that when it goes through the post office no machine will touch it.
22
How Are You?
soscaredsoscaredsoscaredsoscaredsoscared
soscaredsoscaredsoscaredsoscaredsoscared
soscaredsoscaredsoscaredsoscaredsoscared
soscaredsoscaredsoscaredsoscaredsoscared
soscaredsoscaredsoscaredsoscaredsoscared
soscaredsoscaredsoscaredsoscaredsoscared
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soscaredsoscaredsoscaredsoscaredsoscared
soscaredsoscaredsoscaredsoscaredsoscared
soscaredsoscaredsoscaredsoscaredsoscared
The wife is praying a little. To Rilke, she thinks.
It is important if someone asks you to remember one of your happiest times to consider not only the question but also the questioner. If the question is asked by someone you love, it is fair to assume that this person hopes to feature in this recollection he has called forth. But you could, if you were wrong and if you had a crooked heart, forget this most obvious and endearing thing and instead speak of a time you were all alone, in the country, with no one wanting a thing from you, not even love. You could say that was your happiest time. And if you did this then telling about this happiest of times would cause the person you most want to be happy to be unhappy.
In the year 134 B.C., Hipparchus observed a new star. Until that moment he had believed steadfastly in the permanence of them. He then set out to
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