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We’re stuck floating around on the surface of our lives like kids in a pool.

Best-selling author Melanie Gideon reads from her novel Wife 22.

The light is like a benediction. My husband reaches for my hand.

The nights she and Wade have sex she can’t do so without feeling guilty.

At the core, a daughter is a self-reckoning emptiness.

“Fuck you,” I said, but it was hard to say it with any meaning.

Her cheek was like a plum about to burst and you had to close your eyes.

As a child I wanted to behold the elusive squid, the patience of eels.

She was painting a bedroom, trying to be a good mother, wife, Catholic.

Dr. Zee knows his son is struggling up out of some chemical fog.