It started off a so well. In fact, it could not get much worse, since I feel like jumping someone else’s train. But I know what I will find and I will never shed a tear, if not for you.
With this kind of weird handwritten dedication on Anaïs Nin’s A Spy in the House of Love, a well-thought-out approach, in several senses and to its fine details, I made real what no one else ever even dared to dream.
I chose a used copy but in very good condition, so you could guess a single previous owner, that could either be myself or a close friend.
I held it discreetly as I entered the bar, not to sound snooty. That was the biggest risk I took. Many, many of the regular customers of that clip joint were really rather snobbish.
That was a fine line and I treaded it gracefully. The book felt naturally in my hands even when I used it to point her a vacant table.
We left the counter and as soon as we sat down, before she had the time to ask about it, which she surely would do the next thing, I wrote down those somewhat enigmatic lines right on the front cover.
By the time she had read them, the table was already crowded. So she slipped the book into her purse.