The short story "The Adulterous Woman," by Albert Camus, is a favorite of mine. So much so that I had it in mind when I wrote a brief scene for the character Carmen in Judging Paradise. I reread the scene a couple of days ago. I know it's kind of like saying you like your own children, but I can't help it. I like the scene as much now as I did when I first wrote it. Here is the paragraph at the heart of it:
Carmen's husband, the only appellation the other residents used for him, was usually at sea. Carmen was rarely seen at Casa Jose, and no one was quite sure where it was that Carmen did spend most of her time. It was rumored she was in the habit of climbing to the top of the old seawall at Spanish Cove to search the night horizon when she could no longer stand the wait for his return. The rumor was banal and far less than the truth. Carmen, on that perch above the power water, held herself aloof from her fellow human beings as she clung to a personal vow of great consequence, until she performed an ancient solitary dance as the dark island breezes possessed her, held her, and caressed for as long as she could stand it.