Marie Song
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Stories (2)
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Michael
When I was fifteen, I found the man my mother was having an affair with. He was a Radio broadcaster named Michael. Each night, I'd listen to their hushed conversations on the telephone line like a bedtime story. I had never heard my mother sound so stricken, so full of life. She doted on him, loved him deeply, all in secret. I had never thought of my mother as particularly passionate about anything, but she was passionate about Michael. It was some education, I guessed. Even as I watched her do mundane things, like lay around the house, or polish our glassware, or mend my father’s pants, she displayed all the signs of rapture and sadness: Slightly slumped shoulders, loose hands, downcast gaze. All movements I would try on alone in my room, only to find they were useless on me, who had nobody to tie them to.
By Marie Song4 years ago in Fiction
Witness For A New World
The last time I saw Angela was the day I confessed that I didn’t believe in God. She had taken my hand in hers, looked me in the eyes and said, “You don’t owe me an explanation. I’m not Christy or Rod, I'm your therapist. I won’t judge you.” Still, the revelation tormented me.
By Marie Song5 years ago in Fiction
