Years ago, I wanted to be a complicated woman. It wasn’t that I wanted to complicate others with my idiosyncrasies; I just wanted my open book to be in a different language. Then knowing me would be an accomplishment instead of an afterthought.

Laziness or honesty won out. Now when I am disappointed that I have no secret weapon, no smouldering look or poison kiss, I console myself with my own economy of movement. There is what I want: I aim myself at it. Who cares if everyone knows? Leave the mystery to the mysterious; they are willing to take the long way home.