She laid down, her back against the ragged cream diamonds of the rug, and thought: the things she suggested were not at all like horseback rides or writing courses.

When she suggested things, she thought, they often tended to imply a deficiency of some sort. Like when she suggested he get rid of his jeans in favor of other jeans that fit — at least to her mind — much better. Or, when she bought him a new pair of brown leather shoes to match his wardrobe. Which they did, of course, much better than his old grey ones. Or, when she suggested one Saturday morning three years ago standing over her peanut-butter toast in the kitchen, that he might benefit from seeing a shrink.

It was all with the best of intentions, or so she thought at the time. The jeans, the shoes. She had learned so much from having a shrink of her own.

But of course in retrospect, she realized she had not told Mark she loved him, old shoes, ill-fitting jeans and all, had she?

What was it like having someone suggest you are in need of new pants and shoes and a shrink? She wouldn’t even know, since he never gave her these kinds of suggestions.

It was easier to see what was wrong with things. That was the problem. The clutter. The disturbances. The things that didn’t fit. The squeaks and grease. 

Sometimes she considered writing a list of pros and cons, the good and bad, so as to remind herself, or so as to finally see on the page, what it was that was good, what it was that was going well. The rest she could conjure without much effort at all.