I know it won’t be there. I know it, I know it, I know it, and yet there I go, and I turn down the aisle, and my heart leaps a beat and my eyes devour the shelves and I’m standing in the right place and looking and standing and looking and no. The book isn’t there. So I’m left to circle back, to retreat, to retrench. And I search out another author I know and trust. For a moment I think she isn’t there either but she is, but by the time I’ve found her I’ve lost faith. I’ve exhausted her somehow, she’s impressed me so much before. I am certain she cannot perform so well again. Shall I take the risk of something new? Some unknown name, unknown words, unknown touch? Shall I reach out and see where it leads me?
Or will I leave
Like so many times before