Standing in a book store staring at the spines, Jerry asked, have you read this one?

I looked at the title and cover and remembered a friend with a bottle of Jagermeister and his guitar and said, wow. I haven't thought about that book in a long time. Tim had meandered through parties stepping past fawning girls with his shot glass, pausing. Have some of this, he would say, and they leaned toward him and laughed and smiled and did not care if their shirts gaped in the front or if their hair dragged across his hand as he poured them a mouthful.

Jerry laughed, you haven't thought about it? You think about books?

It's like meeting someone, I said. You remember them and where you are in your life…It's like meeting a person, except it's not a person, it's just a book…

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I stood in the shower with a beer and watched mud wash off my skin. In soft shorts and a fresh shirt I sat with a book in the corner on a rented couch in a rented cottage and had nothing of my own but my time and a St Pauli Girl beer.

I read and I missed him and the book saved me. I read and forgot about a month ago when I lived with my boyfriend and I had no idea that when we stood in cool sand and watched another sun sink in the brine, that we saw different things ahead when the summer ended.

In my mind we tore out classified ads and called around town for a new rent. In his mind he was unpacking his things at Danielle's house and had not told me yet.

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Jerry and I sat with our drinks and watched people wander along Shelton's sidewalks, and I said again, yes, I remember reading some books. I remember where I was and what it meant to me to have something waiting when I got home.

He said, my mother sent me a book when I was in the service and I couldn't wait for my half-hour lunch break so I could read. I was lost when I finished that book.

I know, I said.