Again a short story taken from the 20 under 40 issue of the New Yorker Magazine. This short story is written by Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie, which was born in Nigeria in 1977 and moved to the USA. She published some novels and a short stories collection (2009). I haven’t read anything by her besides this short story in the New Yorker.
The story is very simple, combines a static moment in the present with the memories of an affair of the heroin with a married man. I liked the feeling of no motion this story had, stuck in traffic or stuck in your head. The basic human condition is complete solitude, even when, and maybe especially when near others. Sartre came to my mind once or twice while reading the story.
It’s not a story you will think much about after reading, but it stays there, silently, in your head, pounding.
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