Die eerste zin greep me naar de keel, zoals me dat ook wel eens overkomt met het slotcommentaar bij een aflevering van Desperate Housewives. De eerste bladzijde van dit boek van Andrew Sean Greer had me helemaal in de ban.  We think we know the ones we love. Our husbands, our wives. We know them – we are them, sometimes; when separated at a party we find ourselves voicing their opinions, their taste in food or books, telling an anecdote that never happened to us but happened to them. We watch their tics of conversation, of driving and dressing, how they touch a sugar cube to their coffee and stare as it turns white to brown, then drop it, satisfied, into the cup. I…