Lola liked Richard a lot. But she was tired of something, something that she couldn’t exactly “put her finger on.” She felt exhausted and exasperated, too—like she hadn’t had enough of something, or maybe she had had too much of something else.
She threw on here running shoes, scampered down the stairs of her apartment, and decided to go for a walk along the palisades in Santa Monica, where she hoped the bright sun and salt sea breeze might cure her of her blahs. She wasn’t sure if she’d be back for dinner. Or ever.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a Comment