She was walking in a large, noisy street. The smoke, the cars, the signs overwhelmed her. In a turn, she decided she couldn’t take it no longer, and she walked back to her apartment. The confusion from the outside had been transferred to the inside. Shakespeare, Fowles, Flaubert, Barnes and Freud occupied her sofa. Dirty dishes had taken over her kitchen. Even the floor had been conquered by clothes. She couldn’t go back outside or stay inside. The phone rang. Just on the last ring she picked it up. The steady and familiar voice on the other side spoke some ordinary words. The house seemed cozy during those minutes. They hang up. She couldn’t run away, her confusion was right in front of her eyes. The phone rang again. This time it was a sharp and savvy voice she could always reproduce in her head. He just wanted to know how she was doing. He didn’t want to let go. They hang up. She called him back. She told him how she felt like Madame Bovary, and Anne, and Edna and Miranda. How she couldn’t stay or leave. How everything was out of place. As they talked, she washed the dishes, put her clothes up, brought the books down. They hang up. The first voice was on the door. She met him, they kissed. The house was clean. She was home again.

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