Investigate

A month after Peri died, the day after my class put on her unfinished play, I signed up for a library card and checked out Speak, Memory. Glad to be back at home base, I went to the front counter only after reading the first and last chapter in a cubicle. “Never liked Nabokov,” said the mousy lady scanning the barcode. “Pretentious purple prose. ” I forced a chuckle, and left to catch the bus.