On the night my father died, I walked back to the Pad alone under the same blood moon, but this time I didn’t watch it in the sky. I didn’t think about my father on the walk to what was now, in some sense, my home. I wanted, more than I had ever wanted anything in my life, to turn back the clock and climb into the bed in which my ex-husband would be sleeping tonight: to undo the revelation of my affair, to go back to being a woman with a double life, lying to everyone in my midst. Or maybe I wanted to wind the clock back even further: to have never met my lover at all; to have never stood close enough in his proximity to understand that everything that had ever passed as intimacy or desire in me in all the decades of my adulthood had been only a facsimile of something, the polite version, the academic signifier rather than the hurricane signified. Maybe I wanted to undo everything I now knew, that meant I would never be safe inside a box again. [...]