I sit in the purple pleather seat, foam beaten down as it crinkles in the air space between the filling and the fabric. The thin cellophane dust jacket of the book sticks to my sweaty fingers. It’s air conditioned and shady in the library, but I’m still boiling. I keep on reading. Aaron told me this book was meant to be good, but so far, I’m not convinced.

As I turn the page, the corner of the yellowing paper sticks to my thumb, sweat soaking through it and turning it see-through. Gross. I don’t think I like it yet, but if I tell Aaron that, he’ll say ‘it gets better’ ‘wait for it to pick up’.

I turn the page again.