There’s a man in the philosophy aisle of the bookstore
leaning against the shelves, thumbing through various
philosophy books, reading to himself, and animatedly
laughing aloud. I don’t want to confront him about it.
I call my boss’s cell phone and I can tell that he’s at
a high-profile tennis match by the way he answers,
saying, in a near whisper, “Call you back in a bit.”
Behind the front desk, there is a collage of notes
my coworkers have stuck there at over the years.
I just noticed a new one. It has a phone number
and then reads, “Ray had a kung fu book stolen.”