Mostly, it was the telephone calls that did it, making me smile with understanding, but it was also the spaghetti at 10:30 in the morning and the ironing while upset.
I could say that I find myself relating to this character but somehow that’s not quite right. It’s more a home-ish sense. I’m very comfortable with this book, almost as if I weren’t reading it, but rather watching the story unfold from my favorite spot against the wall, smiling at this man after he has hung up his phone, as he takes a few quick steps towards the kitchen, so that he knows that I know, that I understand the strange sort of bewilderment that having people flit into and out of your life can bring, promising that, later, after the confusion, the uncertainty has passed, it will almost seem funny.
I feel like I could sit there and be perfectly content to understand what it is that he is thinking and that, should the situation suddenly find itself reversed, should he find himself sitting in my home, watching me, he could say the very same.
It’s a strange sort of feeling to have, barely six pages into a book.