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[The Sartorialist]

While avoiding getting ready, she read the first ten pages of a Vila-Matas novel hoping to get carried away elsewhere. After slipping off her hands and landing with a thud on the floor, the paperback startled her awake, and the strange notion that she was just having a conversation with the Spanish writer made its way through the sleepy haze. With his subtle accent and in the complicit whispers of two friends gossiping at a wedding, he was trying to convince her that gradually limiting the books he read was a smart move. His life had become cluttered by plot, setting and characterization, and hers would too.

 

She could now not avoid looking at her shelves without imagining all sorts of things falling out from between the pages of the books she’d read; spiders and a rifle, a gentleman’s reading glasses, knives, a recovering addict’s prison tattoos, a golden retriever, a notebook full of names of French schoolchildren and a host of other fictional bric-a-brac threatened to come alive and flood her tiny city apartment.

 

This worrying thought would accompany her all the way to the party, where unfortunately, the wealthy and attractive would distract her from her thoughts.

 

Story by Ivan