Cut and Thirst

by Margaret Atwood

It eases one’s path through the tangled woods of life to be adorable, though there is of course a downside: men think you’re a pushover.

She has noticed, not without muted alarm, that she herself has shrunk half an inch over the past few years, but her feet have grown an entire shoe size. What next, furry ears?

“We want them to feel the hoofbeats of doom approaching. They should be made to suffer from the terror of anticipation.”

“It’s eating her up, that’s obvious. Even though she says it’s all in the past and she’s moved on.” “Which is so untrue,” says Chrissy. “There is no past. Or at least, not until you deal with stuff.”

“It’s an old debate. Should art be good art, or art that’s good for you? Once the question gets raised, next thing you know they’re banning books in libraries.”

Myrna had been surprised by Deepak at the time—she’d thought he was more sensible—but in moments of turmoil and group action, people get carried away.