“These all yours?” I asked, amazed at the loaded bookshelves in Jack’s living room.
It would have taken me a lifetime to read half of these.
Jack’s apartment could have been a bookstore.
“Actually,” Jack said, standing close to me, “I’ve trimmed down my collection over the last two years. Used to have a lot more. My parents never gave me anything but books for my birthday and Christmas. So, yeah. Books. Lots of books.”
I moved closer to the wall-to-wall bookcase. “Oh, I know this one.” I actually had read this book. It was one of the five or six I’d been forced to read during my short high school career. “The Kite Runner, I remember this.”
Jack picked the book off the shelf. “Take it. I think I’ve outgrown it myself. But if you’re really open to trying fiction with an eastern twist, y
