“Ah, I’ve missed you,” I say to the books downstairs in my parents’ house. They are what remains; they are the chronicle of a childhood, an addiction, a love, a growing-up, a whatever-else-you-can-call-it.
Beside me, he says:
“I know what you mean.”
I look at them and silently pick out the ones I want to take back with me; hell, I want them all. I wonder how much it would cost to ship the whole bookshelf back to Oxford; how much more, in fact, than the $800 I’ve already invested. I wonder why we’re like this. I don’t care. I feel immeasurably happy that we both understand.