Mrs. Fletcher

by Tom Perrotta

“What about you? What do you like to do on the weekends?” “This and that,” she said, wishing she had a sweaty and exciting activity of her own to boast about—rock climbing or kickboxing, even tennis. But all she ever did was read and watch movies and go for slow walks around the lake with Jane and her arthritic bichon frise, Antoine.

it was the nagging sense of familiarity that had snuck up on her over the course of the night, a feeling that Jim Hobie was more of the same, another helping of a meal she’d already had enough of.

She wanted something else—something different—though what that something was remained to be seen. All she really knew was that it was a big world out there, and she’d only been scratching the surface.

I wish I could do that myself.” “Really?” “Not the man part. Just the chance to leave your old self behind. To take all your mistakes and regrets and erase them from the story. Who wouldn’t want that?”

It wasn’t that she begrudged her friends their happiness—she wasn’t that kind of person—she just wished they’d be a little quieter about it, a little more private.

But then what? What would happen when it was over, when she got dressed and went home? That part of the movie was a black hole, the one thing she couldn’t afford to think about if she was going to make good on her promise—to do the thing she badly wanted to do—because he was waiting for her, and it was their last chance, and she was the prize.

It was nothing, really, just a passing shadow, and Eve had lived long enough to know that it was foolish to worry about a shadow. Everybody had one; it was just the shape your body made when the sun came out.