She used to be the fastest reader as a child. Pages would collapse into the mind. Every book gulped. Sometimes not even chewed enough. In the tradition of multi-tasking, she would listen to music. Each day, discovering a new band. Thriving on trivia. Words began to cover the tendons, and the notes would wind themselves on her bones, like creepers.
As she grows older, she worries if she’s read all the good books and heard the best music. So she takes to re-reading books. Or reading them very slow. Making each book last a lot longer. This strange fear that the real world is a pale version of the imagined. If ideas were more real than things, and all ideas were known, then what was left to explore? A small part of her head tells her that she may not have even enjoyed reading all that she read. She read because the books existed. Because she’s a nag, she only reads the best.
She knows that there are perhaps some Latin American and obscure East European authors left to read. But this knowledge, that all has been discovered, while sobering, brings with it a certain angst that is fulfilling in its wholesomeness. She now has the perfect excuse.
When he comes home that night, she announces, “Dear Husband, we will now have a baby. I have read all the books in the world, so it’s the right time.”.