I turned again to look at the woman. I was reminded of what Chikwado had said about my lover the first day that he came to our office: “His face is full of overseas.” The woman, too, had a face full of overseas, the face of a person whose life was a blur of comforts. There was something in the set of her lips, which were lined with cocoa lip pencil, that suggested an unsatisfying triumph, as though she had won a battle but hated having had to fight in the first place. Perhaps she was indeed my lover’s wife and she had come back to Lagos and just found out about me, and then, as though in a bad farce, ended up next to me in traffic. But his wife could not possibly know; he had been so careful.
That from Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie’s short story in the September 20 New Yorker. Possibly the best all year. I am rarely so engrossed in a short story; it is difficult to connect with a character in a few thousand words. The story is a perfect window.
(P.S. For another of my–and The New Yorker‘s–favorite authors, see this article.)