Plug the dike

She never said no and never said yes, but pul­led, sla­cke­ned, pul­led her strings of control.
Pull: ›What would be nicest‹, she would say, ›is if I had a tall glass of iced tea‹. What hap­pen­ed next: the men raced to get one for her. The first to return might get a peck on the fore­head (sla­cken), or (pull) a pro­mi­sed walk (to be gran­ted at a later date), or (sla­cken) a simp­le ›Thank you, good­bye‹. She main­tai­ned a careful balan­ce by her win­dow, never allo­wing the men to come too clo­se, never allo­wing them to stray too far. She nee­ded them despera­te­ly, not only for the favors, not only for the things that they could get for Yan­kel and her that Yan­kel could­n’t afford, but becau­se they were a few more fin­gers to plug the dike that held back what she knew to be true: she did­n’t love life. The­re was no con­vin­cing reason to live.
(Jona­than Safran Foer – Ever­y­thing is Illuminated)