they sat on the stoop with paper fans and orangeades. they made their world. they said, who’s better than me? she could never say that. they knew how to sit there and say that and be happy. thinking back through the decades. she saw a woman fanning herself with a a magazine and it seemed like an encyclopedia of breezes, the book of all the breezes that ever blew. the city drugged with heat. horses perishing in the streets. who’s better than me?
…she had more material things than most people she knew, thanks to sons who provided. she had nicer furniture, a safer building, doctors left and right. they made her go to a gynecologist, with janet calling and then marian calling, women of the world hooray. but she still couldnt say, who’s better than me?
she got the italian without the family, the boy who just showed up, like a shadow off a wall…
-don delillo, underworld
