Kathy finished her book over the weekend. She reads fantasy, although she likes to refer to them as "books about magic, elves, and dwarfs" because she doesn't like the sound of "fantasy" as a genre. She also reads the occasional popular fiction (think Bridget Jones' Diary or Divine Secrets of the Ya-Ya Sisterhood).
I, on the other hand, prefer books about "sad women," as someone once said to me. But I like to think I have rather broader literary tastes than that. I have also read some of her fantasy novels (my favorites are by Guy Gavreil Kay) as well as a myriad of other books. But it is true that when the choice is up to me, I prefer books about sad women.
Anyway, when Kathy finished her book Sunday afternoon, she observed it aloud. "I don't have a book to read." I did not comment. I wasn't sure what to do with the announcement. Later in the day, she said it again. Finally, she said, "Can I read one of yours?"
"Oh," I replied. "Of course. Let me help you pick." Then we stood in front of the bookshelf in extended silence. "Maybe this one?" I suggested. She read the back. "HEART WRENCHING? I don't think so." "Hm," I said, picking up another book. "Maybe this one?" She read the back of that one, too. "I don't want to read interesting social commentary. And you read this for a CLASS." Crap. I should have peeled the "ENG 379" sticker off the back before giving it to her.
