She’d been reading for days. Books lay piled on every surface, ill-treated, the spines of paperbacks bent out like wings, pages dog-eared, ribbons as bookmarks and scraps of paper littering the floor. Her best friend once said she made pretty messes. She took that to mean artistic messes. The kind with half-empty wine glasses, dessert ashtrays.
She read and she read. Novels and short stories, fashion magazines, the New Yorker. She wanted to write but hadn’t been able to in months.