Wednesday, October 21, 2009

Anagrams - Lorrie Moore

In bed I tried to be simple and straightforward. "Gerard, I need to know: Do you love me?"

"I love being with you," he said, as if this were even better. (26)


My new apartment might be in a place where there are lots of children. They might gather on my porch to play, and when I step out for groceries, they will ask me, "Hi, do you have any kids?" and then "Why not, don't you like kids?"

"I like kids," I will explain. "I like kids very much." And when I almost run over them with my car, in my driveway, I will feel many different things. (53)


My husband was a lawyer. I met him at the firm I worked for in New York, right after I dropped out of grad school. I got married, not because I'd met Mr. Right, but simply because I felt like getting married. That was also back in the days when I would shave one leg and not the other, just to see what would happen. But I had, I thought, figured it out. People didn't get married because they had found someone. It wasn't a treasure hunt. It was more like musical chairs: Wherever you were when the music of being single stopped, that's where you sat. I was twenty-six when the notes started winding down and going minor. A dark loneliness, in a raincoat and fedora, scuffed in instead. Or maybe I was just tired of saying I was twenty-six years old and having it sound like "I am a transsexual." (75)

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