In the late spring, at the end of a day that was marked by nothing in particular, something just under the surface of the ground changed. Some degree of warmth was reached, or some level of moisture. Something vague and ill-defined became essential and made its way like a signal along the lace of tree roots in the backyard. 

Jake hadn’t meant to stare at her breasts, but there they were, absurdly beautiful, almost glowing above the plunging neck- line of the faded blue dress. He’d read the press releases, of course. 

He was thinking of Lookfar, abandoned long ago, beached on the sands of Selidor. Little of her would be left by now, a plank or two down in the sand maybe, a bit of driftwood on the western sea. 

It was the tunnel—its imminence—that all of them were contemplating that afternoon on the train, each in a different way; the tunnel, at nine miles the longest in the world, slicing under the gelid landscape

After talking about his vegetables, we inevitably talk about the past.

I was plagued by remorse, but my remorse seemed inspired by insignificant dumb things—things not really worthy of bona fide remorse.

The guests are arriving, across the lawn. It is Friday afternoon. The men are coming in on the late train in the parlor car, and others have come on the ferryboat

When I learned of his transgression I threw myself into Dante and Shakespeare, seeking to understand the world that I had failed to see.

Around four in the afternoon Tricia sent Clay out to get some ground beef, and because it was the first nice day in a week, and because he wanted a little time alone, and because he was annoyed with Tricia

Conventional wisdom holds that people, particularly women, become schoolteachers because they enjoy the company of children. Let me state, for the record, that I do not subscribe to this point of view