Wednesday, February 20, 2008

Bloor Line, pasta, pasta, pasta.

Caucasian male, late 40s, large and fit, wearing brown leather jacket, jeans and black leather shoes, carrying groceries and using a Price Chopper receipt as his bookmark.

Million Dollar Baby, F.X. Toole (HarperCollins)

Page 65:

Okay, he thought, times have changed. Dames are doing what guys is doing, but that don't make it right. And then there were the practical reasons. Scheduling fights around periods. And bruised tits. And what if one was pregnant and had a miscarriage because of a fight? That, and he couldn't cuss.
By the time he'd reached late high school, he told his young son, he was winning most of his matches. Why wasn't he happy then? the son had asked. Flipping through old yearbooks, they couldn't find one picture in which he was smiling. The father ran a self-conscious tongue over his veneers and remembered to love himself.

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