A Great Day for RonnySpring that year was rainy. Maria rarely had the inclination so much as to step outside, whether to go for walks or to visit friends or to see plays or films. Instead she would sit on her bed, staring blankly at the drizzle and waiting for the time to pass. Many, many weekends were spent like this. She could hear Dorothy, occupying herself in the other rooms, busy with guests, or records, or the television, or some other form of amusement. Very occasionally Maria would join her, and they would exchange broken sentences, but more often she would wait until Dorothy had gone out before venturing into another part of the flat, for it no longer made sense to pretend that they liked each other very much. To be fair to Dorothy Maria was not a very likeable person under these circumstances, and to be fair to Maria, Maria realized this full well, but found herself for weeks unable to break out of a state of cold languor, a mood of wearied acceptance of whatever garbage life elected to throw at her.
