Lying in hot water surrounded by lavender-scented bubbles, I hold Clarissa Dalloway in my hand, thumb and pinkie pressed against the pages. I seek some peace on a day crowded with the needs and desires of others.
I remember my mother locked in the powder room with a book. I remember disturbing her, wondering why in the world she stayed there so long.
My eyes blink heavily; I drowse in the water, but I hold the book above danger, Mrs. Dalloway safe in the flower shop.