Books

Last night Lola laid around looking depressed and world-weary, but oh so young. Kind of like a child bride on the night of her shotgun wedding. She flopped out on the couch and watched as Bongo paced around the living room, stopping occasionally to pull a book down off the shelf. Because he can only reach the lower two shelves, he has access to all the smallish one-dollar paperbacks I've collected over the years: Albert Camus, Jean Genet, Henry James, Frederick Pohl.

Bongo repeatedly pulls down a book called The Coming of the Quantum Cats and then glances at me. Does he want me to read to him? Is science fiction what he likes best, or would he prefer magical realism? It's hard to say.

Lola likes contemporary fiction, but lately she reads nothing but parenting books.