Fault Lines

by Emily Itami

Parenting is savage—there is no other activity on earth that you could get up to do four times a night for two years straight, and at the end of it be merely in the running for mediocre.

I walk out, slamming the door. The effect is somewhat nullified by the soft-closing mechanism, which means it swings shut until the point it reaches a bubble of air, then shudders closed almost silently.

Home felt like a sepia-tinted photograph that stayed still and tranquil while the rest of the Technicolor world went roaring past.

Therapy isn’t really a thing in Tokyo; you do what you do, and if you really can’t take it anymore, you take the honorable way out and leave your shoes neatly paired at the edge of the bridge when you go.

wish I could exist in suspended animation, every aspect of this moment as it is.

What are we, apart from the stories we tell ourselves and other people?

Brunch is definitely my favorite meal of the day; its optimism and energy, the wholesome anticipation of the sunny day ahead.