UNPUBLISHED REVIEWS
What women think and never say.
July 24, 2026
They say women never say what they think. They do. Every second word. We hear every fourth, and usually the wrong one.
"It's fine." Eight hundred pages in two words. A Nobel for editing.
"Do whatever you want." Freedom, supposedly. In practice, a trapdoor with the handle on her side.
"Fine by me." Three words, three courts, final judgment.
"We'll see." That is a no. A no whose funeral date has not yet been set.
"Interesting." An acquittal we did not deserve.
"I'm not angry." She is not. The anger passed three hours ago. What remains is documentation.
"You don't have to help me." She will manage. The question is whether you will.
A husband asks what she is thinking about. "Nothing." And it is true: nothing that would not hurt him.
He assembles a bookshelf without the instructions. She watches, says nothing, and quietly decides where the books will go once it starts to lean. Some call this love. I call it preventive censorship, out of mercy.
He parks. "You'll fit." He fit. The paint did not.
He drives past the correct exit. She knew a mile back. She says nothing, because a man behind the wheel is a sovereign state, and one does not interfere in the internal affairs of another country.
He hunts for his keys for twenty minutes. She stands up, puts out her hand, and the keys surrender voluntarily. Men call this luck. It is a superior form of intelligence that we prefer not to notice.
He has a cold. Day three. She once got through the flu, a fever and a load of laundry. He has a cold and is dictating his last will.
He cooked once. The kitchen looked like Stalingrad, the spaghetti was good. She said it was delicious. She said nothing about Stalingrad.
He tells the fishing story. Fourth time this year, ninth overall. She laughs in exactly the right place. Meryl Streep has three Oscars for less.
He tries on the new shirt. "Suits you." It does not. But the shirt was expensive and the receipt is gone.
He explains his business idea. She has already found the flaw. She waits, because the flaw will find him by itself in six weeks, and a man has to discover a thing on his own. Otherwise he does not believe it.
He snores. In the morning: "Did I snore?" "A little." A little. The neighbors have replaced their windows.
He asks whether he has put on weight. And here she genuinely hesitates. Ladies, this is the only recorded moment of your uncertainty in the entire century.
Apparently, if women said out loud what they think, the world would turn away from them. Interesting. Turn away where? There is a leaning bookshelf standing everywhere.
Let us check anyway. Restaurants: better by Tuesday. Speeches: forty minutes shorter. Meetings that could have been an email: an email. Wars: cancelled at the planning stage with one question, "and you believe this because...?" Did the world turn away? No. It sat down and started taking notes.
A friend prefers the stock market to guessing what his wife thinks. I understand him. The market crashes too, but at least it tells you why. His wife has better returns. She simply does not publish the reports.
Women's silence is not fear. It is charity. For centuries they have been withholding one-star reviews so that civilization could feel good about itself.
Civilization feels good.
The drawer squeaks.
And it squeaks because of us. Gentlemen, it was always us.