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Kindle Notes & Highlights
No, once she steps onto the platform and the subway doors close behind her, the woman never thinks about the man ever again. This is her superpower, bestowed upon her as a baby by her alien mother. She feels absolutely fine, and she even does bit of work in the early evening before deciding she’s tired and ordering Chinese. She sleeps deeply.
Sometimes, late at night, she stands in the backyard and howls—not because she is sad, but because her lungs are strong and it is a joy to turn air into sound.
A woman walks down the street and absolutely no one bothers her. She smiles at the other women she passes. They smile back. Something is different.
“Can’t you take a joke?” they shriek, and they almost feel bad, because two wrongs don’t make a right. But one wrong after wrong and wrong and wrong and wrong does make a cockroach woman feel better, reckless, free.
There is nothing worse than knowing that the man she loved cut off her head, except the fact that killing him has not made her whole again.
I’ll say upfront, in the spirit of total honesty, I shouldn’t have written “bitch” in poison on the front lawn of your new boyfriend’s house. I know you know it was me, and in my defense, his lawn was asking for it.
This has been a long time coming, which is almost the same as being prepared.
Your Norwegian foremothers did not have fancy chalk liners. They laid tile using their eyes and their keen spatial reasoning. They sailed boats using the stars. Their forearms never tired when kneading dough or giving hand jobs. When their husbands fucked orthodontists, they killed them.
