Scotty gives me the book on our fourth date. He’s written a note on the back cover, mentioning my writing and how this novel about the end of a relationship, written by the author we both like, reminds him of one of my stories and that he hopes I’ll be inspired. I don’t open the book until several weeks later. It sits on my bedside table under my worn copy of Genealogy of Morals. I finally begin reading the book by the author Scotty and I discussed the night we first kissed but I only get through half of it because the book falls on the floor between the wall and my bed. This occurs when I haven’t yet found myself attached to the protagonist so naturally I feel little motivation to retrieve the book from the floor under my bed. I decide that I prefer the author’s short stories. Leaving the novel on the floor under my bed seems more authentically aligned to my feelings for Scotty than retrieving it. I move on with other authors, other stories, and other men. I remember the book every couple of weeks, when I clean my bedroom, when I get on my knees with a vacuum or a mop to confront the floor under my bed. I see the book and I remember it and I remember how much better it feels when I’m not remembering the book at all. I clean around the book. When Scotty eventually asks me how I like the story, I picture the book with the back cover bent against the wall, its pages bordered by dust.
