John Caedan novelist I write about strivers from all walks of life, proud of their achievements, playing for all the marbles when they create, collide, fight, and love.

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She reached the bottom button but left the garment in place. Her hand bent gracefully up behind her neck and undid her hair with a small tug on a ribbon. Its deep black thickness spilled about her shoulders. She shook to make it fall out to the last strand. In the hush of their bedroom, this act made a sound, the softest whisper imaginable, like the sifting and settling of dust shaken from the moon when hearts pull on it from earth.