I suppose, I said, it is one definition of love, the belief in something only the two of you can see, and in this case it proved to be an impermanent basis for living. Without their shared story the two children began to argue, and where their playing had brought them away from the world, making them unreachable for hours at a time, their arguments brought the constantly back to it. They would come to me or their father, seeking intervention and justice, they began to set greater store by facts, by what had been done and said, and to build the case for themselves and against one another. It was hard, I said, not to see this transposition from love to factuality as the mirror of other things that were happening in our household at that time.
March 28, 2014
More from Cusk's Paris Review Story
Posted by TS at 2:20 PM