The Night Guest

by Hildur Knútsdóttir

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.

Sometimes I suspect that she thinks I am a complete idiot. Other days I’m sure of it.

I never really post anything on Facebook, just use it to spy.

There is nothing in the world more tragic than an undeserved hangover.

Sometimes I imagine that if I say little enough, people will find me mysterious. That they’ll begin to imagine that I have this rich inner life. That I think deeply but have no need to show off, that my ideas are too precious for careless babble, that I carefully select where I choose to shine.

I see the battle that takes place inside her. Suspicion and compassion are at war. Compassion wins. The woman sighs.

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.

The hook is already so deep in my flesh, that the only way out is through.

The patriarchy speaks with my mother’s voice.

Because when you stop sleeping, there are suddenly so terribly many hours of the day.