"I gazed at my red couch longingly, more tempted to sit than I'd been in the longest time. The cushions gleamed bright red as cherries, as my former lipstick. Before every lipstick clashed with my grief.
Go on. Sit on me, Miranda.
But what if I can’t get back up? I whispered to the couch."

"Paul would nod along solemnly with the doctor and then look over at me, at a loss. Did you see how he just talked to you again? Did you see?! I’d ask in the car after we left.
I saw, Paul said.
Am I invisible? What the fuck was that about?
I don't know, Miranda, okay? he sighed. Calm down.
And then after our split, when I went to the doctor alone, they still wouldn't look at me. They would direct their questions, their diagnoses, to the corners of the room or to the medical table or to the diagram of the skinned body on the wall. As if these objects were somehow more trustworthy, more reasonable."