Confessions on the 7:45

by Lisa Unger

She liked the shadows. That’s where you got to see all the things that other people missed.

She loved him so much—wild, deep, mad love, even when she hated him, wanted to kill him, railed against his stupidity and selfishness. There was something raw and primal beneath it. He was hers. And she was his. A fiery, blind devotion.

“All women are mysteries.” “Only men think that,” said Pearl. “Largely because they’re not paying attention.”

Why did doing the wrong thing sometimes feel right? There was a tingle to breaking the rules, to doing the thing you shouldn’t do—like driving too fast, going home with a stranger, fighting when you should back down. There was an energy in that space, an electricity, an aliveness she didn’t feel when she was doing all the things she did as a good mom, a good wife, a good daughter.

“I don’t have many female friends.” All the worst women said that, those who vamped for male attention, as they gossiped, sabotaged and backstabbed, then acted confused when other women didn’t “like” them.

There was stardust in her bones. Not so long ago, she hadn’t been here at all. One day she’d be gone for good.

Sometimes that was all you had and all you needed, just the mettle to take the next step.