Isn’t it absurd how much people are willing to pay for someone else to make coffee for them? Guilty, guilty, guilty … especially now, but it’s because coffee shops can be really interesting places.
Overheard today: “You know, people think that when someone is murdered, he is gone. Just gone. But he isn’t really, because he’s still around, just somewhere else. And if you think he is really gone, then he continues to be a victim.”
As I listened semi-surreptitiously to this earnest, middle-aged woman, I wondered what her friend thought of this idea of bodily — or is it soul? — displacement, but then I realized that this was not a conversation, it was a monologue, and that perhaps that friend was actually somewhere else. I had my opening sentence for Chapter 3, and it would be of a woman talking to her friend without the friend knowing it.