I was at a loosely called book club get together. Loosely because half of us have read the book and forgotten and the other half forgot to read the book. Club because we are a band of women at a time in our lives when being married is no longer an aim but staying married is difficult. We laugh. We love.
At the last meeting, someone suggested we read that fifty shades book. The idea went around the room, it took form, people were concurring to read, two had already started and then the light fell on me.
The light suddenly became sharper, brighter, pointier, hotter. I was going to say I couldn’t read it. I was hoping no one would ask why. Thankfully the ladies pointed their anxieties to each other. Some of the people had no idea it was an SM book, so in light of all this new revelation they chose Mirror Mirror by a safe Irish formulaic writer.
Great (stage aside – big sarcastic sigh), we were going to have bad prose just like 50 shades, a formula, just like 50 shades but no erotica.
Great, no one asked me why, my faith was assumed to be at the heart of the reason.
Great we would meet again next month, and the ex-sex worker could keep her past secret for another day/week/month/year/lifetime.