I am reading a book I found in a charity shop, flipping through in the hopes of encountering notes made by previous owners, which is one of my favorite things to do. Leah used to buy me books chosen purely on the strength of this, presenting me with copies of Das Kapital and Middlemarch with inscriptions scrawled across their title pages by people I will never meet. For Doreen, without apprehension. For Jack, on his birthday and despite his behavior.
