It's all about motherhood. END
There is an apartment on the West Side of Chicago that is almost always dark; inside it, Clint lives, and Meg exists. . . . In the kitchen, the fridge seems to be exclusively the domain of the American alcoholic, as Clint is constantly rummaging through it for something cold to satiate his drunken hotness; more cold beers, cold pop, cold cuts, cold butter, cold peanut butter, cold fresh fruit, cold fruit preserves, cold everything, delicacies that the European mind could never fathom. This has left the pantry and other less interesting things entirely to Meg; though her life has been reduced to corners, she can still make some things expressly hers. The napkins she’s purchased have embossing and are seasonally themed, now it’s snowmen in tophats with intricate buckles and evergreens behind them; in a few months, it will be floral spring designs; and after that, Meg will have found napkins with summer brightly stamped into them, and she’ll use those to wipe formula or breast milk f...