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.
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