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Small things. Not a family history of serving in high places in the government, nor owning businesses, nor inherited wealth. All of these your husband has in plenty. At this point in your life, after three years of marriage, the small things have become the basis for your opinion.
By Suniti LandgéJune 2002The thing Terry hates most about going back to England, even on vacations, is that it’s like coral: a living dead thing. There is sweet nothing to do. Football. Sky television. The cancer of the reminiscence.
By Ivor S. IrwinJanuary 2002A facelift, a name tag that says Allen, an unanswered knock
By Our ReadersDecember 2000A black wig, four long red marks spaced like fingers, a black polyester shirt with white polka dots
By Our ReadersSeptember 2000He is genuine and soft, not flirting or wanting anything, and his kindness drains her. But it also sends her a wave of courage; his honesty has made way for hers, and she will try to get as close as she can to saying what cannot quite be said.
By Laura PritchettMarch 2000A portable electronic keyboard, a tumor, a charge of solicitation
By Our ReadersFebruary 1999December 1998There is a rhythm to the ending of a marriage, just like the rhythm of a courtship — only backward. You try to start again but get into blaming over and over. Finally you are both worn out, exhausted, hopeless. Then lawyers are called in to pick clean the corpse. The death has occurred much earlier.
Erica Jong
A safe-deposit box, a black-and-white TV, a Christmas gift
By Our ReadersDecember 1998Personal, political, provocative writing delivered to your doorstep every month—without a single ad.
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