Handing the librarian my thick plastic card, I can’t seem to discern that she remembers I was in here two days ago. If she’s impressed at the stack of books I’m returning.
I want her to be impressed. I need a partner, a cheerleader in this race I’m in. Only a lifetime to read all these books. And who knows the dimensions of this life I’ve got.
What have I left behind, in this book? Fingerprints, eyelashes, the crumbs of my lunch, a bit of my soul. Will its next reader think to look for the traces I left behind?