A few nights ago B and I were walking in the neighborhood. We were thinking about drinking. We were thinking about what combination of music, lighting and crowd would make that drink taste the best. We were stretching our legs. We were walking the beat.

It was late, but not too late, to be a little aimless. On one street, my favorite book store sits: Unnameable Books. My feet pulled me inside as usual. It was packed despite it being almost closing time. I announced that I couldn't buy anymore books then remembered the credit in my wallet, pink paper folded away. I burned that credit and then some.

I also saw a book my brother would have loved. I wanted to shout out to the book buyers: "Guess what? My brother would have loved this book!" I wanted to shout it to everyone. He was here and I loved him. I guess I am shouting it now.

Instead I showed the book to B. He didn't act like he cared enough about being shown this piece of my heart, this best-guess about my long-dead love. I only showed him because there was no one else to show. I had a hot flash of anger and self-pity. Then I forgave him for wanting me to live here with him instead of in my mind with my brother.

*** 

Less maddening are the books:
The Invention of Morel by Adolfo Bioy Casares because who isn't obsessed with Lulu  
Threats by Amelia Gray because I've been wanting to read her for awhile  
The Apple in the Dark by Clarice Lispector because why the hell not

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Unnameable Books is my favorite bookstore for many reasons. There are new and used books.  Attractive, bookish people flock there. It pulses with a sense of imminent satisfaction through discovery. You remember forgotten obsessions and find related loves. Plus, it's cheap.