A simple, brilliant, poignant book about a middle-aged librarian realizing, after both her children have married and moved out, how little she and her husband have in common, and how unexamined her own life is. Price was a poet and it shows throughout; every line carries the considered weight of a poem’s, and there’s scarcely an extraneous word in its 85 pages. It’s touching, funny, empathetic, endlessly quotable, and rings true at every turn. Naturally, it seems to have had but one print run and only Colm Tóibín’s praise of it in an overlooked-books article put it on my own radar. It may forever remain obscure—but everyone who’s read it has praised it, and I am no exception.