Book

She has a book. A real book with paper pages that she writes in with a real pen. Real words in a real book with real ink that will dry and will exist. Atoms and molecules adhered to atoms and molecules that will remain bound for the foreseeable future. I want to ask isn't she afraid that her book will be lost. Eaten by a dog, burned in a fire, dropped in a sewer grate, left at a bar, taken by a thief, warped by rain, yellowed with age, discarded by a nurse, carted to a landfill, eaten by insects. I don't ask, nor will I ask. Instead I will have another drink and leave the bar, thinking about her nose ring the whole way home.