It is all about numbers. It is all about sequence. It’s the mathematical logic of being alive.
AIMEE BENDERIt is all about numbers. It is all about sequence. It’s the mathematical logic of being alive.
AIMEE BENDERBut I loved George in part because he believed me; because if I stood in a cold, plain room and yelled FIRE, he would walk over and ask me why.
AIMEE BENDERMy eyelids are my own private cave, he murmured. That I can go to anytime I want.
AIMEE BENDERWhen language is treated beautifully and interestingly, it can feel good for the body: It’s nourishing; it’s rejuvenating.
AIMEE BENDERThat she might not actually know us seemed the humblest thing a mother could admit.
AIMEE BENDERHe was also removing all traces of any tiny leftover parts, and suddenly a ritual which I’d always found incestuous and gross seemed to me more like a desperate act on Joseph’s part to get out, to leave, to extract every little last remnant and bring it into open air.
AIMEE BENDERI was with them for all of it, but more like an echo than a participant.
AIMEE BENDERBut what I kept wondering about is this: that first second when she felt her skirt burning, what did she think?
AIMEE BENDERIt was like we were exchanging codes, on how to be a father and a daughter, like we’d read about it in a manual, translated from another language, and were doing our best with what we could understand.
AIMEE BENDERI want to be violated by insight.
AIMEE BENDERI’m obsessed with adolescence. I love to write about people in their 20s.
AIMEE BENDERIf everything kept to its normal progression, we would live with the sadness-cry and then walk-but what really breaks us cleanest are the losses that happen out of order.
AIMEE BENDERThe wine glasses are empty except for that one undrinkable red spot at the bottom.
AIMEE BENDERI am not happy, help me — like a message in a bottle sent in each meal to the eater, and I got it. I got the message.
AIMEE BENDERTo see someone you love, in a bad setting, is one of the great barometers of gratitude.
AIMEE BENDERI am the drying meadow; you the unspoken apology; he is the fluctuating distance between mother and son.
AIMEE BENDER