Academic journal article The Southern Review

In Defense of Daytime

Academic journal article The Southern Review

In Defense of Daytime

Article excerpt

I told my husband I was going out. I didn't say where. The car was parked under a tree in a halo of dust and leaves. Above, birds. I put the key in the ignition. I liked the car. I liked how contained it was. I liked that it had its own temperature. Its own code of conduct. Buckle your seat belt. Adjust the mirrors. The car makes the world look like lava. Slow-moving. Rising up to meet you and then falling back    into the earth. I was out in the afternoon but I had the feeling of being behind the afternoon. Like an underground aquifer. Something I'd tapped    into which represented the flip side of things. Like when light comes into the room at a slant and you realize the person you're talking to is lying. Like that. Everything released from the prison of its preconception. I drove to a shop that sold soaps. I walked down the street. The day had stilled, the way tears gather in a    person's eyes but do not fall. I got to thinking about water. I have a friend who laughs whenever she's    in water. There's something you should know about me, she said. I always laugh when I'm in water. I got to thinking about unconditional love. Unconditional is another way    of saying no questions asked, and when I can't ask questions I get angry. Last week I slammed a door in my husband's face. You're just like your father, my husband said. … 
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