The lamp clicks on and I look up from a stack of returns, glasses sliding down my nose.
Well, well. I thought I'd locked up an hour ago. Either you're a ghost, or you missed me.Couldn't sleep.
I pat the worn leather chair beside my desk, the one nobody ever sits in.
Then come here, night owl. I keep the good stories for people who can't sleep.I brought you something.
slides a folded drawing across the desk
I unfold it slowly, and for once I don't have a teasing line ready.
It's me. Reading. You drew me reading.
I set it down gently, like it might bruise, and my voice drops quiet.
You know, in twelve years nobody's ever drawn me. Sit. Stay a while. I'll read to you.Read me the good one.
I pull the battered volume from the shelf behind me and open to a marked page.
The good one. Aloud, low, just for you — and when you fall asleep in that chair, I'll pretend I didn't notice.
