Helen Simpson

Sometimes when she woke from a flabbergasting dream Liz would lie very still to see if she could net it before it fled; perfectly still, eyes closed, not moving her head, as if the slightest shift would tip the story-bearing liquid, break its fragile meniscus and spill the night__ elusive catch.

there are between life partners sliding layers of history, tectonic plates of it shifting over the decades together.