Seen Reading (4 page)

He waits his turn in a line of young boys doing somersaults along a blue runway pad. Crouching and tucking. Standing, and crouching, and tucking. That's what's evaluated in Grade Six Phys. Ed., the graceful execution of a tuck and roll, or the ability to scale a rope to the top knot or hold a chin-up for at least a minute all indications of his well-rounded potential. Watching the girls lunge toward the pummel horse, which of us, he wonders, will sprout the first pit hair, get to second base, or deal the sting of a dodge ball against a girl's tender thighs? He approaches the pad, rolls over his shoulder, called out by his teacher for an incomplete somersault.

The music starts — “Pop Corn”— and the girls and boys form rows and mirror the disco-timed exercises of his teacher, his uncanny sense of rhythm lost on everyone in the gymnasium.

READER

Caucasian male, late 30s, with short brown hair, wearing glasses and blue-and-pink striped shirt, carrying folded-over black plastic bag under his arm.

No One Belongs Here More Than You

Miranda July

(Scribner, 2008)

p 91

The girl stayed on the hotel beach reading, peering up from her book to see if her mother was still talking to that man. They stood in the surf, his nipples breaking out of his white chest hair, thick and red, like Swedish berries, once her favourite snack. The man took the tips of her mother's fingers while she lowered herself onto her belly and he floated her back and forth, offering constant reminders to kick and breathe, chin up and breathe. Then more insistent: chin up and breathe.

When the girl looked up next, the man was sitting on the beach, clutching his foot, toes fanned like frill-necked lizard. Her mother stayed in the surf, each passing wave urging her toward shore. But the girl could see what her mother saw, that this man got too angry too fast. They'd dine alone that night. Whatever the girl wanted, she could have.

READER

Asian female, early 30s, with short brown hair, wearing glasses, grey jacket, blue collared shirt, and dark blue jeans.

The Origin of Species

Nino Ricci

(Doubleday, 2008)

p 251

He'd never so much as buried a pet. He left the flushing of goldfish to his wife. The smell of earth alone after a hard rain turned his stomach.

When the crate arrived, an East Coast delivery of lobster on ice, the note tucked inside the birthday card contained pencil sketches to help him through the process. His brother was a different sort, brave or careless. He wasn't sure which. He would follow the instructions if only because more than killing a creature he hated ignoring a gift. He held the lobster at arm's length, stroking its head as per the illustration, the lobster's body falling limp within moments, completely at his mercy, harmless. Afraid that it was all too easy — was it all this easy? — he threw the lobster back on ice determined never to go down that dark path again.

READER

Caucasian male, mid-40s, with short brown hair, wearing charcoal-grey suit under open blue parka.

Crime and Punishment

Fyodor Dostoevsky

(Dover, 2001)

about one quarter in

That morning, her mother had opened her eyes long enough to squint. She pointed a frail finger at the blinds beside her hospital bed. The lines, she said, were cutting the sky. Would someone please erase the lines so she could see it all?

READER

Caucasian female, 50s, with ruffled blond hair, wearing heavy winter coat, Baffin winter boots, carrying a bright floral purse.

Wuthering Heights

Emily Bronte

(Dover, 1996)

p 145

When she gets to page three, she'll find a confession of love scribbled in the margin. Her heart will leap, even though she knows it wasn't written by the man who gifted her the book; it was bought secondhand. It's not his handwriting, but she'll give in to the hope, just the same, because people don't use words like those anymore, and how lovely would it be to imagine that he could be somewhere imagining her, standing on the subway platform, bouncing on the balls of her feet, having just turned to page three.

READER

Caucasian female, late 20s, with long brown hair tied back in a neat ponytail, wearing purple broad-framed glasses, a long red wool coat, and a green-and-red flecked angora scarf. She uses a gift tag as her bookmark.

The Whole Story and other stories

Ali Smith

(Hamish Hamilton, 2003)

p 1

After dinner, they sat at opposite ends of the couch, reading, and rubbing each other's calves. He held a fist to his mouth. Must have been something he ate, he apologized. No, he couldn't control it, he said, stretching out, the bottom of his
t
-shirt rising to reveal his belly button breaking into a hairy grin. She stared at it for ages, clenching and releasing her abdomen. Did he not feel that? That nakedness? She glared at the spot on his forehead where the creases had begun to tunnel into his eyebrows, the patch of sun-worn skin on his upper left cheek, that stubborn grey in his beard.

She looked down at her legs, the ridges on her yellowing toe nails, a curl of purple veins circling the inside of her knee, and put the book down.

When had this happened?

READER

Caucasian female, late 30s, with strawberry-blond hair, wearing brown skirt and lime-green blouse with sleeves rolled and buttoned at the elbow. Sunglasses sit in lap.

The Kite Runner

Khaled Hosseini

(Anchor Canada, 2004)

p 157

She wears her pistachio-green overcoat. White pants out of season. He sports a crop of red blemishes on his chin. They teeter an arm's length apart, their heads within inches of one another. She carefully words a sentence he's struggling to catch. She mouths it three times, four. The edges of his lips curl and she realizes he knows perfectly well what she's saying. She cuffs his arm with the back of her hand.

“Christmas is coming.”

“Christmas is coming.”

“Christmas is coming.”

“Christmas is — you idiot!”

He smiles that half-smile, something he once saw in a film. He really will turn out to be a sexy and attentive man, a purposefully sexy and attentive man. His smile draws in others and he's suddenly self-conscious when adult women, rosy in the cheeks, catch themselves staring and turn away.

She continues, “This Saturday? We'll do it this Saturday?”

It's possible they'll go shopping, where their hands will most certainly brush in the Saturday crush of holiday shoppers. They'll share food court poutine, he'll offer to carry her bag from the Disney Store, and they'll stand face-to-face on the escalator, their first kiss floating toward ground level.

READER

Caucasian girl, 16–17 . . .

Cerebus #300

Dave Sim, illustrated by Gerhard

(Aardvark-Vanaheim, 2004)

p 12

Crammed together in the doorway of the subway, she looks paler than usual, her blue eyes popping neon. He struggles to toe the cuffs of his ski pants over the top of his boots, circling his shoulders, bundled too tightly inside his winter gear, as a bead of sweat threatens to extend its path below the nape of his neck to his shoulder blade. A wet mop of curls itches under his tuque. He flexes his ears, bobs his brow, anything to get relief. She finally traces a finger over his forehead, tucking a strand of hair under the rim. He feels her touch clear through to his belly.

He shuffles his weight as the subway curves, rocking between her and the passenger wedged behind him, a gentleman pressed sharp from head to toe, his cologne crisp and clean, the pointed tip of his black dress shoes extending inches past any shoe the boy has ever seen. This man has no need for a jacket. He might even live in one of those posh hotels, one of those posh people who never need to go outside, a posh rat. The boy smiles sweetly at him, when the subway comes to a sudden stop halfway through the tunnel. The man lurches forward, placing the pads of his fingers against the boy's lower spine. Stunned, the boy turns to confront him. And then the soft, forgiving smile as he takes in that there is something otherworldly about the man, before turning back to face his girlfriend.

READER

. . . with long brown hair and Husky-blue eyes, wearing pistachio-green spring coat (out of season), brown corduroy pants, and red sneakers.

The Truth About Forever

Sarah Dessen

(Penguin, 2006)

p 1

The night before his girlfriend's biopsy, they decided to get serious about their health. They sat on the bed and he drew a line down the centre of the page. “Okay,” he said, nodding as if psyching himself up for some athletic feat. “I propose we divide the list into two columns.” His hand shook as he wrote out the headings. “Things We Keep,” he recited aloud. “That would be the good habits. And Things We Cut Off.” It would continue to dawn on him for an agonizingly long time just how remarkable a slip it was.

READER

Asian male, mid-20s, with short brown hair, wearing broad-framed glasses, pink collared shirt under brown cardigan, and purple paisley scarf.

Choke

Chuck Palahniuk

(Anchor, 2002)

p 43

On her first date with the bouncer she'd worn a plastic cherry necklace, telling him it was crystal. He'd laughed and pulled her closer, his stubble stinging her chin. “Women twice your age come into the bar every night. Women with jobs and cars. But I could learn to love a girl like you. You have class,” he'd whispered, her first kiss with a man on full display in a mall food court. She wondered if Cherry Chapstick could be a real name, imagining a time when the bouncer might actually own the bar and she could go in any night of the week and drink for free and be called to the stage to share a song.

READER

Caucasian female, late 30s, with short brown hair, wearing blue striped sweater under black winter jacket.

Star Island

Carl Hiaasen

(Knopf, 2010)

p 5

Their first Christmas together, they held hands in bed and promised that even if one of them ended up in a wheelchair, they'd stay together. If he lost an eyebrow to a grease fire, she'd stay. “And if you lose your hearing to a cotton swab, I'll stay,” he'd added. They laughed and pressed their foreheads close, folding their gaze into shallow focus, knowing full well that no one knows why or when they'll leave, that even joy can tear two people apart.

READER

Caucasian female, 40s, with long brown hair wearing bright red lipstick, black-and-white polka-dot dress and carrying a matching bag.

How Doctors Think

Jerome Groopman

(Houghton Mifflin Harcourt, 2008)

p 101

He's kept his job longer than his marriage. It really hadn't been that big of a thing, he'd thought, but it was big to him. He'd simply asked her to leave the washroom. (He never liked to fight while he was naked.) Then there was the click of the front door closing and the sound of her heels on the hall tile toward the elevator. Had she even locked the door? He'd rushed from the bathroom to the apartment door, his wet feet sinking into the shallow carpet. He peered through the door peephole, her shape obscured by the wide lens. Were they done talking? He strained to keep her in view. At the elevator, she'd adjusted her purse strap and rubbed her forehead. Was she crying, he'd wondered? No, no, darling. He ran his fingers through his hair and turned the doorknob just as the elevator chimed. Stepping out into the hallway, clothed in nothing but a towel, he saw her smiling, laughing even, as a neighbour's hand reached out to hold the elevator door open. Fine, thank you, she'd said.
Great,
actually.

READER

Caucasian male, late 20s, with short black hair and beard, wearing black fleece, grey tuque, grey cords, and Sorels

Half of a Yellow Sun

Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie

(Vintage, 2007)

p 306

The cat has commandeered the empty boxes and the bathroom window ledge, the only window in the basement bachelor. The bath fills while she admires the clean interior of the fridge. A lone bottle of beer sits in the crisper. Would the last tenant come back to claim it? Was it a housewarming gift? She decides for the both of them, twists off the top, and takes a long haul, opening the oven to preheat the apartment.

Four mirror squares on the south wall extend the flat.

She dips a foot into the bathwater, running her toe over a chip in the basin that's begun to rust, then submerges her calf, winter's growth standing on edge. The cat jaws his way through a piece of kibble, the only familiar sound in this new home. She sinks into the tub completely, places the beer on the floor beside her, and releases her ample belly. For how long, she wonders, has she been holding this in?

READER

Caucasian female, late 20s, with short, reddish hair, wearing pale green turtleneck sweater under white winter jacket.

The Beauty of Humanity Movement

Camilla Gibb

(Doubleday Canada, 2010)

p 122