On Thursday I went to the annual SF Library booksale and brought home 30 books for $50.
Today, after more coffee than my brain could reasonably handle, I went into the dining room where the Lad was clattering away at the keyboard and where my shelf of unread books was sitting patiently.
“How are you today, books?” I asked.
“Fine, thanks!” I answered myself in a high-pitched voice. “We like to be alphabetized here on this shelf together!”
“The Waughs are pushing,” I complained in a lower-pitched voice that clearly came from the Trollope section.
“Don’t be pushy, fellows,” I warned them. “I will read all of you in time.”
“We’re looking forward to being put on the shelves of books you’ve already read in proper alphabetical order!” I squeaked as the books.
“Yes,” I agreed in my normal voice. “We do all like to alphabetize things, don’t we?”
“Will you bring us home some friends when you go to the booksale again on Sunday?” I squealed.
“I sure will, and they can be alphabetized in among the rest of you,” I promised.
“There’s no more room on this shelf,” I complained from the Trollope, but I ignored me.
I wandered back into the living room and turned on the laptop. “Hey!” I squeaked in my book voice. “What are you doing with that thing? You have to start reading us! Turn off your computer! You promised to read us!”
I think it was somewhere around this time that the Lad left.