The Hunting Wives

by May Cobb

overhear—“be careful. Margot Banks is not a nice person.”

It wasn’t envy, though; I didn’t want to be her. It was so much more than that. I wanted to be near her. For her to notice me, too. The idea of it took my breath away. It became powerful and even consuming.

I take a deep breath and remind myself that I wanted all of this. So why isn’t all of this enough?

Was Sophie not cut out to be a full-time homemaker? Or was she trying to be Martha Stewart without the self discipline?

As it turns out, you can’t outrun who you are. My darker urges simply followed me here and are even more amplified because it’s so quiet, and sometimes so boring.

This is it, I think, the moment in the porno where the glasses come off and she’s no longer a librarian.

WHAT’S WRONG WITH me? Why can’t I be content with normal, quiet, lovely things? I mean, I am happy; there’s part of me that is fulfilled by all of this, but obviously, there’s another part that is decidedly not.