That is, until the book slipped
from her hand and roundly thumped Cecil on the head.
"I'm sorry!" apologized Julia, but too late, and Cecil was off her lap,
shaking his the pain out of his head, galloping into the bedroom to
find his favorite orthopedic pillow. "Maybe I should read a shorter
book," said Julia to herself. She waited for some cosmic act of
synchronicity to follow, to confirm her judgment on some level above
human interpretation. Yet the moment of truth that had evaded her ever
since childhood continued to remain conspicuous by its absence. In
lieu of enlightenment, a muffled argument began to emanate from the
college students next door. The plaster made it all to easy to hear,
in terms of volume, but reduced everything to disconcerting roars, in
terms of clarity. As far as Julia could tell, the argument, which was
building to the "throwing objects to accentuate one's point" phase, and
concerned the doctrine of predestination versus free will as well as
whose turn it was to run the dishwasher.
"Well," she said, tossing the hulking tome next to the library's copies
of "Cat's Cradle" and "Waiting for Godot", "I didn't understand much of
it anyway.
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