Date a girl who reads. Date a girl who spends her money on books instead of clothes. She has problems with closet space because she has too many books. Date a girl who has a list of books she wants to read, who has had a library card since she was twelve.
We’re slowly unpacking.
And in the office closet stands the bookshelf my dad built me when I was ten. It is now crammed full with books, along with CDs and a few lone DVDs.
The books are in no particular order. A book about hiking and another about the history of zero sandwich a Kabuki graphic novel. A few spines over, Plato: Complete Works leans against a signed copy of Foxfire.
The kitchen still isn’t unpacked. It’s hard to cook. The blinds are still in their FedEx boxes. I’m living in three shirts, one pair of jeans, and a skirt. The dining room table is covered in papers I need to file. The house is a mess.
But I have books.
And it’s starting to feel like a home.