In a small seaside town, I stop outside a bookshop. Through the window, one catches my eye: it’s jay-bird blue and has your name on it.
Later, while my husband sleeps off the beers from lunch, I go back. I pick up the book, read the author information. There’s no photo, but I don’t doubt it’s you.
“Those are signed copies,” the bookseller says. “Would you like one?”
“My husband says I have too many books already.”
I don’t read the dedication before returning it to the display. I’m too afraid the words are meant for me. Too afraid they aren’t.