Second Nature

The evening had turned sweet and blue.

He'd already realized that he could not begin to understand the things men did; now he saw women were even harder to figure out. Sometimes it almost seemed as if they were thinking one thing and talking about something else completely, and you didn't know what to believe: the thing they said or the thing they didn't.

What did we know about those closest to us, really? No one ever dared to speak plainly about desire; no one said the word out loud.

She judged people smartly and quickly, and often found herself in a huff.

Lydia went over and handed him a paper napkin. Conner stared at the napkin as if it were something delivered directly from the moon.

Somehow, what they'd had was already over, and she hadn't even been aware of the end. This happened with roses: it was possible to take them for granted all summer as they wound along fences and gates, and then in September, when they faded, how beautiful they'd once been suddenly took hold. That was when people began to yearn for them, and all winter long they'd watch the bare branches for buds, vowing that this time they'd be grateful for all that they had.

she clutched her purse and was completely composed, gracefully accepting people’s sympathies, but when they started to shovel the dirt over old dick’s coffin she began to weep, and her grief was strong enough to chase the sparrows from the trees.

What he was doing was actually a hundred times worse. He was telling her that he loved her, something he hadn't mentioned and may not have even known when they were married. She used to whisper it to him sometimes, while he was fucking her, and he had to turn off his mind every time she did that. For some reason that declaration had seemed like a curse to him back then; he couldn't even hear it spoken aloud

People really could be one way outside, when inside they were torn to shreds, a fine white powder of grief and regret replacing blood and bones, and no one even noticed.

Men think about right and wrong, they have to debate it, discuss it, draw upon possibilities and statistics, laws and codes. Wolves have to know. They have to know in an instant, pure instinct, not thought, because they can never be wrong. If they're wrong, the ice they walk upon cracks, their lungs filled with cold water and crystals. If they're wrong, their brothers and sisters starve and their pups are shot as they run. If they're wrong, the rabid wolf comes back, and he always comes back, only this time they're sleeping, and they can't even put up a fight as he splits them apart.