2012م - 1444هـ
Gone Girl



When I think of my

wife, I always think of her

head. The shape of it, to

begin with. The very first

time I saw her, it was the

back of the head I saw,

and there was something

lovely about it, the angles

of it. Like a shiny, hard

corn kernel or a riverbed

fossil. She had what the

Victorians would call a

finely shaped head. You

could imagine the skull

quite easily.

Iʼd know her head

anywhere.

And whatʼs inside it. I

think of that too: her

mind. Her brain, all those

coils, and her thoughts

shuttling through those

coils like fast, frantic

centipedes. Like a child, I

picture opening her skull,

unspooling her brain and

sifting through it, trying to

catch and pin down her

thoughts.