Liane Moriarty

ife sure can surprise you,’ her grandmother used to say, mostly about quite unsurprising developments such as a bad cold, the price of bananas and so on.

ow his name. It was a . . .” Stop. Pause. Look away

On the other hand

couldn’t help
but keep laughing

undid her seat belt

banged on the
window.

pulled up at a red light

When she walked through art galleries she felt what Logan felt when he watched the grand slams: pain and pleasure, like unrequited love.

Just when he thought he had a handle on this grief business, it walloped him, as if he’d only just got the news. He pressed the back of a hand that still smelled like lamb casserole to his mouth and a small white butterfly fluttered by so close he felt its wings brush against his cheek.

She enjoyed being told off by them. She could hear the rhythms of her own voice, her mother’s voice, her grandmother’s voice, every relieved cranky woman from the beginning of time.
*
It was nice to hold on to the memories of those fierce, desperate hugs when the hugging stopped.