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“Zelda Fitzgerald,” by Aria Aber | The New Yorker

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“It’s true I hate the stories about the other women, / but I love the description of their daily lives.”

Save this story Save this story Read by the author. It’s true I hate the stories about the other women, but I love the description of their daily lives, like the scene with twelve raspberry cakes in a French café, or the drunkard asking for the way. A bottle of whiskey on a heavy walnut table, my husband’s hands on a glass. No one’s muses are believable, said the painter whom I loved for twelve weeks and who would rarely touch me. To him, the female body was a plant: it needed to be tended and spoken to, but too much warmth would spoil the matter. In his paintings that I like best, women wande

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