Commuting, I'd thought, was a bad time to read Amanda's Greece story.
I'd seen an early draft of "At the Seashore With Medea," which was now in front of me, published smack in the middle of the anthology "Greece: A Love Story." I'd originally cried while reading it. Such a sad tale.
But then today I'd been squished into the PATH train, and one of my arms was snaked around a businessman to grab a distant handhold. I couldn't both hold my book open and turn a page. I was stuck reading Amanda's story, where my bookmark was, where I'd stopped on the ride home the night before.
I tried to remain stoic during the tale of Amanda's divorce. But then I read on, and when I became teary-eyed, it wasn't over the content.
It was the perfection of the words. It was nearly my story. My entire next book, beautifully encapsulated into just a few lines.
An unexpected divorce in a foreign country with no money and no friends? Perfect storm. I scraped for words, the, finally, spat: "You. You're not worth suicide."
Damn you, Castleman. You've set the bar high.