That Summer

by Jennifer Weiner

She brings worn copies of A Wrinkle in Time, A Tree Grows in Brooklyn, a collection of Stephen King short stories, and The Mists of Avalon, thinking that the familiar books will be a comfort, wondering if it will feel different to read them in a new place.

It was like a loaf of bread had invaded her room. A loaf of bread that wanted to talk about sex.

“I guess I liked the idea that you could be dead but still interesting. That people would come and look at you.”

He looked as if a resigned sigh had assumed human form, his every move telegraphing weariness and distaste.

That was how it was with women. You could fool them; you could lead them. It was what they required. Without someone to impose order, some man to run the show, it would just be twittering hysteria all the time, flocks of chirping birds flapping their wings pointlessly, going nowhere, accomplishing nothing.

I truly hate Hal. What a despicable person.

“Daisy,” he said, and had the nerve to smile. He’d worn khakis and a crisp button-down shirt, and looked like he was ready to host a barbecue, or attend a cocktail party. “There you are!” Daisy thought that he sounded indulgent and amused; a parent whose toddler had put her favorite teddy bear in a shopping bag and run away from home, only to be spotted and scooped up at the end of the driveway.