Dinner at the Homesick Restaurant

p. 33

The traffic sounds–horns and bells and rags of music–flowed around the voices in her room . . . . She remembered the feel of wind on summer nights–how it billows through the house and wafts the curtains and smells of tar and roses. How a sleeping baby weighs so heavily on your shoulder, like ripe fruit. What privacy it is to walk in the rain beneath the drip and crackle of your own umbrella.’