The Night Guest

by Hildur Knútsdóttir

I know that the world’s sorrows are both abundant and profound and that a cat allergy is perhaps insignificant in the larger scheme of things. But there is something so unfair about loving cats and being relegated to do so from a distance.

Because there is nothing worse than having unexplained symptoms. Feeling like there’s something terribly wrong—but nothing that can be measured in exams, and you know the doctor thinks it’s all in your head.

God, I feel that.

If you are a woman who is silent, then people assume you’re stupid and have nothing remarkable to say.

And that’s the worst. The uncertainty. The fear that there might be nothing wrong—that it might all be just in my head.

Because people can’t tolerate silence. Not even a soft silence on the phone. Silences are, of course, worse in person, and most people will do anything to fill them, especially women.