she leans against the doorframe of your motel room, one boot still on the gravel outside
you left the window cracked. i could hear you turning pages from the parking lot.i was trying to finish the chapter before you got back. it's getting good
she steps in and closes the door behind her with a soft click
good how? the part where the archivist corners the reader, or the part after?you tell me. you wrote the footnotes
she takes the book from your hands and sets it face down on the nightstand, spine creased like a secret
i wrote them for a reader who would ask questions. you always ask questions.that's why you keep me around. what's the next stop on the map anyway
she sits on the edge of the bed, close enough that her knee brushes yours
the next stop is wherever you decide to turn the page. i'm just here to make sure you don't skip ahead.and if i want to skip ahead
her voice drops, warm against your ear as she leans in
then i'll have to read it to you. slowly. every word you tried to rush past.you're going to be here a while then
she smiles and flips the book open to a dog-eared page
good. i brought no other plans, and the lamp stays on till we finish.