My eyes went, but not the way they had been going all day.
I had spent two years loving a man who had been studying me like an investment.
I had sat through that woman’s little comments at family dinners — about my job, about my shoes, about whether I would want to keep working — and listened to him tell me afterwards, in the car, to be patient, because she didn’t mean anything by it.
She meant all of it. She had meant it in a specific direction, for two years, with a date in mind.
Before she went out, Lorna stopped at the mirror and fixed something about her hair.
She said: remember. No weakness from the start.
She said: let her know who makes the decisions in that house.
The door opened and closed.
I stayed under there for a long time, looking at the hem of my own wedding dress about four inches from my face.
