I’d never thought a single sentence could turn me of so decisively from both making love and playing the piano, but there it was.

No illustration accompanied the text, mercifully. And I had my seventh word: playing

Which left me with:

Are you going to c**k playing

That didn’t seem right. Fundamentally, as a mat er of grammar, it didn’t seem right.

I looked back at the page in the journal and resisted the urge to turn forward. Scrutinizing the girlish scrawl, I realized I had mistaken a 5

for a 6. It was page 65 (not the junior version of the devil’s number) that I was after.

be

Much more sensical.

Are you going to be playing—

“Dash?”

I turned to nd Priya, this girl from my school, somewhere between a friend and acquaintance—a frequaintance, as it were. She had been friends with my ex-girlfriend, Sofia, who was now in Spain. (Not because of me.) Priya had no personality traits that I could discern, although in all fairness, I had never looked very hard.

“Hi, Priya,” I said.

She looked at the books I was holding—a red Moleskine, French Pianism, Fat Hoochie Prom Queen, and, open to a rather graphic drawing of two men doing something I had heretofore not known to be possible, The Joy of Gay Sex (third edition).

Apprising the situation, I figured some explanation was in order.

“It’s for a paper I’m doing,” I said, my voice rife with fake intellectual assurance. “On French pianism and its e ects. You’d be amazed at how far-reaching French pianism is.”

Priya, bless her, looked like she regret ed ever saying my name.

Priya, bless her, looked like she regret ed ever saying my name.

“Are you around for break?” she asked.

If I’d admit ed I was, she might have been forthcoming with an invitation to an eggnog party or a group excursion to the holiday lm Gramma Got Run Over by a Reindeer, featuring a black comedian playing all of the roles, except for that of a female Rudolph, who was, one assumed, the love interest. Because I withered under the glare of an actual invitation, I was a rm believer in preventative prevarication—in other words, lying early in order to free myself later on.

“I leave tomorrow for Sweden,” I replied.

“Sweden?”

I did not (and do not) look in any way Swedish, so a family holiday was out of the question. By way of explanation, I simply said, “I love Sweden in December. The days are short … the nights are long … and the design completely lacks ornament.” Priya nodded. “Sounds fun.”

We stood there. I knew that according to the rules of conversation, it was now my turn. But I also knew that refusal to conform to these rules might result in Priya’s departure, which I very much wanted.

After thirty seconds, she could stand it no longer.

“Well, I got a go,” she said.

“Happy Hanukkah,” I said. Because I always liked to say the wrong holiday, just to see how the other person would react.

Priya took it in stride. “Have fun in Sweden,” she said. And was gone.

I rearranged my books so the red journal was on top again. I turned to the next page.

The fact that you are willing to stand there

in the Strand with The Joy of Gay Sex

bodes well for our future.

However, if you already own this book

or would find it useful in your life,

I am afraid our time together

must end here.

This girl can only go boy-girl,

so if you’re into

boy-boy, I completely support that,

but don’t see where I’d fit into the picture.

Now, one last book.

4. What the Living Do, by Marie Howe

23/1/8

24/5/9, 11, 12, 13, 14, 15

I headed immediately to the poetry section, completely intrigued. Who was this strange reader of Marie Howe who’d summoned me? It seemed too convenient that we should both know about the same poet. Really, most people in my circle didn’t know any poets at all. I tried to remember talking about Marie Howe with someone—anyone—but came up blank. Only So a, probably, and this wasn’t So a’s handwriting. (Plus, she was in Spain.)

I checked the Hs. Nothing. I went through the whole poetry section. Nothing. I was about to scream in frustration when I saw it—at the very top of the bookshelf, at least twelve feet from the oor. A slight corner peeking out—but I knew from its slimness and dark plum color that it was the book I was looking for. I pulled over a ladder and made the perilous climb. It was a dusty ascent, the out-of-reach heights clouded with disinterest, making the air harder to breathe. Finally, I had the volume in my hand. I couldn’t wait—I quickly turned to pages 23 and 24 and found the seven words I needed.

for the pure thril of unreluctant desire

I nearly fell of the ladder.

Are you going to be playing for the pure thril of unreluctant desire?

I was, to put it mildly, aroused by the phrasing.

Carefully, I stepped back down. When I hit the floor again, I retrieved the red Moleskine and turned the page.

So here we are.

Now it’s up to you,

what we do (or don’t) do.

If you are interested in continuing this conversation,

please choose a book, any book, and

leave a slip of paper with your email address inside of it.

Give it to Mark, at the information desk.

If you ask Mark any questions about me,

he will not pass on your book.

he will not pass on your book.

So no questions.