In August, the mother takes her two small sons to France.
She has been ambushed all spring by quick fits like slaps to the heart. She is tired of keeling over on the elliptical or in the streets where she walks her dread at night. Also, summer in Florida is a slow drowning. The humidity grows spots on her skin, pink in the pale, pale in the tan.
She tells her husband that she has to research Guy de Maupassant.