I was reading Proust. She sat down next to me and asked me what I was reading.
“Oh, Proust,” she said. “I would never read that. It’s much too long.”
“It is long but the prose is achingly beautiful.”
“A friend of mine told me that I very much reminded him of one of the characters.”
I knew whom he meant. I could see the similarity at once. It was not flattering. She assumed it was. I guessed her friend didn’t like her and she adored him.
“What’s it about?”
“Oh, yes,” she said. “I would certainly fit into that story.”
Yes, she would, I thought. But not the way she thinks.