en

Meg Wolitzer

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    furniture-brown hair
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    Apparently, Greer thought, these are going to be my people, tonight and perhaps every weekend night. It made no sense; she didn’t belong with them, and yet she was among them, she was one of them.
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    Bitterness, she knew, could give you an edge. Unlike pure unhappiness, bitterness had a taste.
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    Chloe tried to rise to the occasion like a little mermaid lifting toward the ocean surface, but she couldn’t entirely sit up.
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    Don’t look away. Come back to me. Come back.
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    They could be strong and powerful, all the while keeping their integrity and decency.
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    In itself, that card was a kind of abstract prize, a reminder not to stay hot-faced and tiny-voiced.
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    Greer had noticed, when she was very young, how, looking straight ahead, you could sort of always see the side of your own nose. Once she realized this it began to trouble her. Nothing was wrong with her nose, but she knew it would always be part of her view of the world. Greer had understood it was hard to escape yourself, and to escape the way it felt being you.
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    Everyone was thinking and worrying a little about the long run, that abstract road that supposedly might lead to happiness, before it led to death.
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    Everyone seemed to want love, whether they admitted it or not.
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