The Unselected Journals of Emma M. Lion: Vol. 3

by Beth Brower

I humour he who gave me such an order, not because he holds any authority, but because I expect him to fail spectacularly at what he has set out to do alone and the less genteel part of my nature wants for amusement.

My worst qualities? She is ambitious to think we will get through them during only one afternoon tea. I should think I require three teas, at least.

I believe I said something encouraging, such as, “Don’t be an imbecile!”

“It’s messier than we ever imagined it to be as children,” he said. “What?” “Life.”

And I hadn’t realised until that moment how much I’ve missed that feeling, of someone inside your four walls watching out for you. The feeling that home isn’t just a place, but also people. I’ve forgotten it could be.

Having ripped something open, confiding in a man who, while not a complete stranger, is still an unknown country. Perhaps that’s why I could do such a thing.

I learned a long time ago that my happiness has to be separate from the things beyond my control.”

“I must march forward before my desire has flown and I become one of those contented souls chained to their small routine, all the while believing themselves to be free. Don’t think I mind a routine, that’s just what I’m craving. But the right routine. My routine. Two walks a day, several hours of reading, perhaps one visit with someone I enjoy. One dinner or entertainment per week if you must, possibly two, but please let there be reading.”

“Is it so unreasonable to expect a small amount of perfection from life?”

“Does he read?” “Oh, I expect not. How else would one remain so incredibly stupid? Forgive me. I mean— Well, actually, that is exactly what I mean. Me calling him stupid was less a reflection of his ability and more of the state in which he exists.”

Embarrassing and delightful. My life, in other words.

This will be interesting, if not pleasant or comfortable. Which sounds like a description of most Americans. Perhaps that was unfair. Perhaps not.

The power men possess to annoy me I give them by a weak curiosity.

Another sort of false prayers are our regrets. If this be the case, perhaps I’m more prayerful than I previously thought myself to be.

It felt as if it were…what can I say? A fission? An energy? All that mounting storm he carries about his person breaking in beautiful rain. And I thought to myself, This. This sort of battle, this kind of argument, this laughter when we realise we are saying the same thing—this is what I wish from life.

Agnes had made too many scones. As if there is such a thing. There may be such a thing, but I doubt anyone has ever seen it.

I first approached the drawing room by means of stealth—an alternative way to say I hunched down and peered through the keyhole. Emma M. Lion, adult extraordinaire.

As a rule, dislike should be founded on more than a person simply speaking with one’s friend. As a rule. Perhaps not an inflexible one.