Nobody Remembers

Nobody remembers the book that ruined me. That's why I'm telling you.

There's no name on it. No title, no author, no date. I've checked twice a year since I was nineteen, holding it up to every lamp I've ever owned, and the cover gives you nothing but cover. The spine has gone soft as a lip. If you picked it up you'd think it was nothing.

That's what it wants.

I put the kettle on when the nine-forty goes past. It shakes the glass at nine-forty and the kettle goes on and the water is ready before the tea is, which is how I know the evening has started. It has gone past at nine-forty every night of my life and it has never once been late.

I read it aloud now, every night, to a room with nobody in it. A book nobody reads is a book that isn't. I know how that sounds. I've had sixty-one years to get used to how it sounds.

The opening of Chapter One. It continues here: Chapter One