In reading “Novel 11, Book 18” I was reminded of the countless times my mother would drag me as a child to clothing stores. I would sit and read, if I was fortunate enough to find a chair in the vicinity, while she shopped for endless hours for a blouse or top that she would, the following week, bring back to the store to return — dragging me back in the process. And thus the cycle would repeat itself. I am confident that, in some alternate reality, I’m still there, at Ross or TJ Maxx, JC Penny or Marshalls, my butt aching from the hours spent sitting on that hard plastic.
