Returned With Notes
romanceEveryoneI don't write anything. Not yet. I want to know who I'm talking to. I put the book back in the box, exactly how I found it. Then I set up on my porch with coffee and a clear view. Two joggers. A beagle. The mail carrier waves. 8:40 — someone in a blue jacket stops at the box. Takes out MY book. Flips straight to the margins. And frowns. Because I didn't write back.
I'm off the porch before I can think. Me: 'Any good?' They jump. Hold up the book like evidence. 'Sorry — is this yours? The notes. Are they yours?' Up close: my age. Nervous. A pen tucked behind their ear like they came ready to reply. Me: 'The black pen is me.' They stare. Then: 'You didn't write back.'
What happens next?
2 ways forwardMe: 'I wanted to know who I was talking to first.' They look at the book, then at me. 'And now?' Me: 'Now I'm talking to you.' The beagle guy passes again and definitely slows down to listen. They flip the book open to page 63 and hold it out. 'I'm not letting you off the hook. I asked you a real question on this page. Read it.'