Meaning, meaning, meaning, Janice thought, rolling her eyes. Would Alvin ever think about the mundane, easy things like a nice miniseries on TV or a walk through Evergreen Park to look at the roses in bloom? She reached for her latest novel, set in Scotland where the linen sheets were all ironed and scented with lavender. Sure the characters had problems, but it all worked out in the end. Alvin would hate this book, she knew. (Good thing she was reading it on a Kindle so he couldn’t see the title.) He didn’t like novels in general, unless it was Dostoevsky or, yes, he would stretch and read Dickens. Alvin was an existentialist; any ease in life was suspect. He did not pursue happiness; he pursued significance. She admired that so much, and felt weary at the prospect of emulating him.
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