There is a certain level of pain a woman must be in to take her husband’s phone from its charger and carry it into the bathroom at one a.m.
There’s another level, unknown to most women, to take that phone downstairs, hands shaking, and call

“Do you think he’s cheating?”
That’s the first question every woman asks.
My lawyer, my cousin, my friend’s sister walking me through the divorce process.
No, I say. I am sure of this.
They feel too bad for me to question further,

It began as a thought. The kind that flits through your mind like a moth, landing lightly before disappearing. Only this one stayed. It drifted from brain to throat, emerging as a joke:
“If I sell this book,” I said. “I’m buying a Porsche.”