Deep Cuts

by Holly Brickley

I personally like to pretend the phrase “deep cut” has a totally different meaning, one that has nothing to do with anyone else’s opinion. How deep does it cut? How close to the bone? How long do you feel it?

They were both older than me, like almost everyone in the program, hovering somewhere just under thirty. Nobody had told me you were supposed to go to grad school at thirty.

That’s what I gave up when I chose this life. My best friend, we lived together—her name was Jennifer, before everyone was named Jennifer. I think she still plays in the city. Miss her sometimes, that’s all. Nobody understands you like a violinist, what it’s like living up on that high wire. Odd ducks like me, all of them. But, honey,” she said, with a significant look, “that is not something you get from a man.”