The Friend

by Sigrid Nunez

I decide to make reading aloud part of our routine. Knowing how this might look to others, though, I don’t tell anyone. But then there’s a lot in these pages I’ve never told anyone. It is curious how the act of writing leads to confession. Not that it doesn’t also lead to lying your head off.

Your whole house smells of dog, says someone who comes to visit. I say I’ll take care of it. Which I do by never inviting that person to visit again.

You can’t hurry love, as the song goes. You can’t hurry grief, either.