Solution C

     He was yammering on again incessantly. Words flew at her through the air, tumbling in and out of her ears. The headache builds. And still he drones on and on about some nonsensical opinion on property taxes. Or newspapers. She can't tell, is beyond caring or comprehending any of these myriad sentences.
     The traffic picks up and cars thunder past. The roaring of tires on road climaxes and for a glorious tract the voice recedes, incapable of reaching her addled senses. Colors zoom past, red, blue, green, red, pale yellow, or maybe tan. Champagne? Three black ones, followed by yet another red. Flying by, flying onwards.
     She can't hear him but he is still speaking. She thinks it is about cats now. Who talks about cats? Nobody talks about cats. Nobody.
     She pushes him into the traffic.