Keeping up with, or ahead of, what had been co-opted by the masses became too difficult, and Sheila just stopped. But soon found out that giving up was the next big thing. One day, at the kitchen counter, with a piece of cake, never tasted but carefully obliterated by her fork, in front of her, she wondered if maybe she’d been travelling along a set course.
Using the stars, she hoped, because that idea had a little romanticism to it.
This, and last, month’s fashion magazines stuffed in her mailbox. Hundreds of unread emails and unnoticed notifications in her inbox.