T. Coraghessan Boyle in The New Yorker: "The Lie"...
The clock inched forward. Clover got dressed, put on her makeup, and took her coffee mug out to the car and was gone. There was nothing heroic in what I did next, dealing with the baby and my own car and the stalled nose-to-tail traffic that made the three miles to the babysitter’s seem like a trek across the wastelands of the earth—it was just life, that was all.
Open Thread below...
