Quotation
“Remember that English writer, Virginia Somebody?” She snapped her fingers. “Woolf.” “I’ve heard of her, but I’ve never read her work.” “I was in this book club for a couple months? We read a novel by her about a day in the life of this lady who gives a party. Mrs. Dalloway’s the title of it. Like who gives a shit. Anyway, she committed suicide—the writer, not the hostess—and you know how she offed herself?” “No clue,” I said, wondering where she was going with this. “Loaded her coat pockets with big rocks and walked into a river. Sank to the bottom and she drowned. Over and out. I figure kids are like that. Get pregnant, you might as well fill your pockets with stones.”
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I passed a McDonald’s and circled back. While 5:30 wasn’t exactly supper time, I paused long enough to scarf down a Quarter Pounder with Cheese, accessorized with fries and a Coke. I was nearly cross-eyed with carbs and fat grams when I wadded up the wrapping from my QP and tucked it in the french fry box.