In August 2014 I had the pleasure of sleeping with a lovely woman residing in Brooklyn. Upon taking me up to her room I noticed her bookshelf. I always look at a woman’s bookshelf whenever she invites me over. Some will have one in meager size claiming no time to read. Others just didn’t have one nor did they own an e-reader. On occasion there were titles not familiar to me. On this particular day this lovely woman had a shelf stacked with books that mimicked my own- the first time experiencing such a thing. Void of space she decided to stack titles into the closet. It was a beautiful sight and made sleeping with her more enjoyable. She decided having a romantic partner wasn’t going to work out at the time- a family member had recently passed on top of transitioning jobs; a lot for one person to handle, some might say. Shame- I really liked her. There was not only a comfort being in bed next to her but knowing we had similar minds evident from her bookshelf. Walk into any Strand and you’ll see if he/she has no books, don’t fuck her/him paraphernalia. First time I ever gave the “joke” some thought and was pleased with its outcome. I wonder if she thinks of me sometimes. Not just her but all the women I’ve been with; I often wonder if my personality has left a fragment in their subconscious, like a bullet a doctor decided not to extract during surgery. Or like a good book that resonates with the reader for years following its completion.