Unread

It showed up shrink-wrapped. New.

I'd ordered used—cheaper, less

like a commitment—after someone

at a dinner party said you have to read this

with the certainty of a person who thinks

one book can change another person.

I nodded. Typed the title on my phone

under the table while she was still

explaining why. The wine was good.

I wasn't going to read it. I knew that

when I ordered it, I think.

But the copy came pristine,

and when I peeled the cellophane

the smell hit me—glue and paper

and something almost sweet,

chemical, like a new car

but quieter.

I sat at the counter. Didn't open it.

Just held it close and breathed

and thought about who I was performing for

in my own kitchen

on a Wednesday night.

Three days later it's face-down

by the coffee maker. Ring on the back cover.

Spine still uncracked.

The smell's almost gone now, replaced

by whatever the kitchen smells like—

dish soap, yesterday's garlic.

I'll move it eventually.

To the shelf with the others.