We’re spending the afternoon at the library. We’ve kissed behind the fountain, read each other poems, and nibbled pumpkin seeds secretly in the fiction stacks, and now I’ve settled into a sofa with my novel. Bon Iver comes around the corner with a pile of books so tall I laugh. ‘How will you carry those on your bicycle?’ I ask.
He topples them into my lap and curls up beside me, tucking his bare feet beneath my legs. Books about tigers and other big cats, meteorites, anatomy, native grasses and shrubs, weaving, silly fiction stories, sad fiction novels, and one about care and maintenance of your marimba.