Spadina streetcar, heat-spent.

Caucasian woman, late 30s, with strawberry blonde hair, wearing a brown skirt and lime green blouse, sleeves rolled and buttoned at the elbow. Her sunglasses sit in her lap, looking exhausted and foggy.

The Kite Runner, Khaled Hosseini (Anchor Canada)

Page 157:

And now, this woman, this mother, with her heartbreakingly eager, crooked smile and the barely veiled hope in her eyes. I cringed a little at the position of power I'd been granted, and all because I had won the genetic lottery that had determined my sex.

Same woman, a day and 123 pages later:

Children played in the aisles and chased each other up and down the steps. The scent of garbanzo beans in spicy sauce hung in the air, mixed with the smell of dung and sweat.

Same woman, next day and on the same page.

After dinner, they sat opposite ends of the couch, always, and rubbed each other's calves. He held a fist to his mouth. Must have been something he ate, he apologized, his stomach gurgling like a contagious yawn. No, he couldn't control it, he said, pulling his knees to his chest. As his legs parted, the bottom of his t-shirt rose, his belly button breaking into a hairy grin. She stared at it for what seemed like ages, clenching her abdomen. Did he not feel that? That nakedness? She glared at the spot on his forehead where the creases had begun to tunnel into his eyebrows, the patch of graying skin on his upper left cheek, that stubborn grey in his beard. She looked down at her legs, the ridges on her yellowing toe nails, a curl of purple veins circling the inside of her knees, and put the book down. When had this happened?