Three Days in June

by Anne Tyler

She was one of those ladylike women who wear heels on all occasions, the perfect candidate for heart issues.

She was looking at me with her chin raised, the way people do when they know they’re in the wrong.

I am not the kind of woman who dreams of doing things.

When the beautician swung my chair around to face the mirror again and asked, “What do you think?” all I said was, “Looks good,” even though it didn’t.

It seemed there were tears in my eyes, but I couldn’t say why.

He’s got me walking two miles every morning and cutting down on my salt and doing geckos.” “Doing what?”

“Like, when you tighten all your pelvic floor muscles and then relax them,” he said. “Oh, Kegels,” I said.

I had meant it when I said I didn’t want a cat. I didn’t even want a houseplant; I had reached the stage of life when I was done with caretaking.

But children veer out from their parents like so many explorers in the wilderness, I’ve learned.

Anger feels so much better than sadness. Cleaner, somehow, and more definite. But then when the anger fades, the sadness comes right back again the same as ever.

she’d had a habit of falling in love with other people’s families.

Because one of life’s frustrations is that sometimes, it’s best to say nothing.

Sometimes when I find out what’s on other people’s minds I honestly wonder if we all live on totally separate planets.