A couple of nights ago, Mark and I were chatting about breast augmentation (gasp!)(strictly on an observational level) and he said, "Oh, my friend Janine has a horror story." I asked for more, but he politely told me that I would have to read about it.
Back in Chapter One of our romance, I recall him telling me of an author-friend and a tragic tale (not about the implants) she told in her recently published autobiography. By Chapter Two, I regularly noticed the book on his shelf, but only because I'd looked up long enough to take a breath to keep from drowning in organic chemistry.
Last night I was tending to Cody and his thunderstorm-induced panic attacks when I got a call that Mark was enjoying the Denver airport so much that he was going to stick around for an extra 90 minutes. Bleh. I'd already played my move in Lexulous. I'd checked all of my friends' status updates on facebook. And the dishes were done.
I grabbed the book.
An hour and a half later, I noticed it was well past my usual bedtime. But...I had to know what was going to happen next. I somewhat reluctantly asked Mark if I could bring it home (I already have two of his books in my possession, dusty on my bedside table), and he graciously agreed. Luckily, I can slip this one back on his shelf tomorrow.
It's a true story. And it's heart-wrenching.
I saw parallels to past lives and stark differences as well. I was engaged and anxious and horrified and saddened.
Do yourself a favor. It's a quick read. And if it doesn't rattle you, I don't know that we can be friends anymore.