• Suchen never understood what had driven her to grasp the oar at the last moment.

    NEWYORKER: Alone

  • Suchen wondered why the man, after spending almost a lifetime in India, had chosen to return.

    NEWYORKER: Alone

  • Almost: Suchen watched Walter flinch at the word and then let hope flicker in his eyes.

    NEWYORKER: Alone

  • He had been in town for two days, Walter said as he followed Suchen into the street.

    NEWYORKER: Alone

  • When the waitress came to take the order, she asked how Suchen was doing with the smoke.

    NEWYORKER: Alone

  • Suchen looked up at the afternoon sunshine, framed by the rectangular door, waiting to claim Walter and herself.

    NEWYORKER: Alone

  • The waiter came over to take their order: iced tea for Suchen, a strangely named energy drink for Walter.

    NEWYORKER: Alone

  • When Suchen asked the waitress for her check, Walter finally picked up his.

    NEWYORKER: Alone

  • After the couple left, the man told Suchen that his name was Walter.

    NEWYORKER: Alone

  • Suchen had driven along the Pacific Coast for five days before turning inland.

    NEWYORKER: Alone

  • Suchen apologized and said she did not watch TV, and Walter seemed disappointed.

    NEWYORKER: Alone

  • There was not much to say to this, so Suchen agreed that indeed the town was quiet and lovely.

    NEWYORKER: Alone

  • The waitress gave Suchen a sympathetic look, but did not make any comment.

    NEWYORKER: Alone

  • Suchen had often wondered how she and the five girls would have turned out if the others had not drowned.

    NEWYORKER: Alone

  • Suchen replied vaguely that all was well with her, though she had no idea what smoke the waitress was talking about.

    NEWYORKER: Alone

  • At the corner, Suchen paused, waiting for Walter to step into the crosswalk first so that she could choose another direction.

    NEWYORKER: Alone

  • Suchen stabbed at a slice of pear and wondered if there was a death or a divorce she would learn about.

    NEWYORKER: Alone

  • Walter looked up, stung, Suchen thought, by the cruelty of her words.

    NEWYORKER: Alone

  • When Suchen did not speak, he asked her where she was going.

    NEWYORKER: Alone

  • The divorce papers had arrived six months later, mailed to the cottage that Suchen had rented, not far from their old house.

    NEWYORKER: Alone

  • Out of reflex, Suchen fumbled in her purse and found her phone.

    NEWYORKER: Alone

  • Suchen looked at the slice of lemon floating among the ice cubes in her glass and blushed, as though the man were her companion.

    NEWYORKER: Alone

  • Suchen wondered what it would be like to be understood without having to speak, the comfort of silence without the threat of misunderstanding or estrangement.

    NEWYORKER: Alone

  • These beaches made Suchen think of a ragged shoreline in Ireland or the clashing waves of the North Sea at the mouth of a Norwegian fjord.

    NEWYORKER: Alone

  • If any of the women had ever mentioned this to their husbands, or if any of the husbands had mentioned it to Lei, Suchen would never know.

    NEWYORKER: Alone

  • Suchen could sense no trace of smoke in the air.

    NEWYORKER: Alone

  • For a while they sat, and Suchen remembered the splash of a fish breaking the surface of the water, and two egrets taking off with unhurried elegance, one after the other.

    NEWYORKER: Alone

  • Of course, he was right, Suchen had readily agreed.

    NEWYORKER: Alone

  • An old couple, sitting at a third table on the patio, were also discussing the fire, their voices loud enough to be an invitation, and the man next to Suchen wasted no time chiming in.

    NEWYORKER: Alone

  • Suchen nodded and then shook her head.

    NEWYORKER: Alone

$firstVoiceSent
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