““Pretend you're me," she says. I can barely see her over the frothy mound. And it happens just like that. A feeling of sinking, a falling deep inside. And I'm her. And this is my house, and Matt French is my husband, tallying columns all day, working late into the night for me, for me. And here I am, my tight, my perfect body, my pretty, perfect face, and nothing could ever be wrong with me, or my life, not even the sorrow that is plainly right there in the center of it. Oh, Colette, it's right there in the center of you, and some kind of despair too. Colette-- --that silk sucking into my mouth, the weight of it now, and I can't catch my breath, my breath.””
