Eleanor is Great

About This Novel

Whenever someone-a taxi driver, a dentist-asks me what I do, I tell them I'm an "office worker." In nine years, no one has ever asked me what kind of office it is, or what kind of work I do there. I'm not complaining, that's fine. I have always avoided being associated with others. I don't have a mobile phone, and I rarely use the Internet; I never take the initiative to chat with my colleagues; except for people from the Social Security Bureau, water meter readers, missionaries, and food delivery people, no one visits my apartment. Sometimes, I feel that my connection to the earth is as weak as a spider's thread. With just a strong gust of wind, I can fly away from the ground, like a dandelion seed. Whenever silence and loneliness overwhelmed me, I talked to Polly. Polly was my potted plant, the only surviving creature from my childhood, who followed me through various foster homes. In fact, I was just like Polly, requiring only minimal care and attention and mostly being self-reliant. I know what others say about me behind my back: weird, weird, crazy. But it doesn't bother me at all. I'm fine, great. I don't need anyone else - there are no big holes in my life, no missing pieces in my personal puzzle. At least, that's what I believed until I met Raymond.

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