A lady with crossed legs was reading the book on the train.  Her skirt was hiked up along her thighs.  They weren’t the best legs.  She must have used an old, rusty razor when she shaved them.  It didn’t matter.  They were a woman’s legs.  Men watched them.  She got off the train two stops before mine.  I never saw her again.

I saw the book again on a shelf through a long window pane.  The sun shined directly on it, purposely, so that I would notice it.  I stood close to the window, staring at the book.  Passing herds of people bumped against my shoulders.  There was a hand that went for my wallet.  I caught it by the wrist.  The man connected to the hand looked ashamed, poor, with little broken teeth.  He walked away looking at the ground.

Another day, I watched the book walk into a gas station restroom.  I was on the way out.  I even held the door for it.  I couldn’t see what was going on in there.  I imagine the man was reading the book on the pot.  His clothes were too nice for a gas station toilet.  Suit jacket, tie, cufflinks – the works.  I’d seen the conditions of that toilet first hand.  I stood on my toes while urinating as to keep my heels dry.  I don’t know why I elected to keep my heels dry while my toes suffered.  It happened instinctually.  While I did my business, I read the graffiti on the walls.  It was carved with pocketknives, magic marker, anything that would show up on the dirty tile.  One section was just a phone number, below it some person wrote, “drug dealer. good prices.”  I copied the number down, just in case.

In September, I saw the book at a barbeque.  A man, who should have been watching his children, was reading the book in the shade.  His eyes were bad.  He squinted and turned the pages aggressively.  His kids were across the park.  One was in a tree, aimed at a beehive.  The other was preparing a mound of rocks to defend against the impending attack.  For some minutes, I watched the man reading.  I couldn’t get a good read on his opinion of the book.  He didn’t smile, but there were no signs of distress on his face either.  Then I got distracted by the children again.  The smaller one fell out of the tree.  He survived.  The bees went about their business.

The second lady I saw with the book was a stick figure.  Her arms reminded me of something scary.  Her fingers were pointed.  There were six on one hand and only four on the other.  It must have been a birth defect.  She didn’t hide her abnormal hands.  She didn’t read the book either.  Instead, she shuffled through the pages the way you’d flip through a thick stack of dollar bills.  She put her nose near the pages and moaned.  I wanted to talk to her.  To ask her about her fingers and maybe about the book, but I didn’t have courage.  I watched her until my stomach ached.  I hadn’t eaten that day.

Another man on the street had two of the books.  A duplicate, a spare, or maybe a gift for his lover.  He had a marching way of walking.  Knees up, chin high.  I followed him.  After three blocks, I noticed I was marching along with him.  We must have been a bizarre sight.  Two men, marching up Main Street on a Monday afternoon.  People surely wondered where we were headed.  To a meeting perhaps.  He was dressed shabbier than I.  His trousers got lazy around the ankle and flailed about.  They drug under his heel, but he marched on.  I couldn’t keep up with his marching.  My breath became erratic.  A monster of a cram lodged itself beneath my ribcage.  I stopped at a vending machine for an iced tea.  It was warm.  I drank it anyway.  The marching man with the books was long gone by then.

My grandmother had the book, but it was mostly by mistake.  She picked it up in the book store, held it briefly, admired the cover, scoffed, and plopped it back down on the shelf.  To make her feel better, I picked it up after her.  My palms began to sweat.  It was the first time I’d come in direct contact with it.  When my grandmother looked at me, I scoffed and tossed it, cover-side down.  She found another book that suited her likings some aisles over.  There was a shirtless man on the cover.  He was riding a horse with a braided mane.  She bought that book instead.  I had no money to purchase any books.

I realize, only now, that I’ve had a fair share of encounters with this particular book.  I’ve seen men and woman wielding it, clutching, fanning, hording it.  I’ve seen it in terrible, unsanitary places.  I’ve also seen it in pristine environments with perfumed air and chandeliers.  I’ve seen stiff copies and floppy ones.  Some have been stained by time and the sun and dirty hands.  I’ve never seen a child with the book.  Maybe it isn’t a book for children.  Perhaps this is a foolish assumption.  I have also never witnessed a pediatrician or a biologist reading this book.  Then again, maybe it isn’t meant for them either.

One day, when I gather enough money and nerve, I will buy my very own copy of this book.  I will take it with me on train-cars and busses.  I will read it in the bathtub and at night under the moon.  I plan on traveling to Europe one day.  Surely I will bring the book on this excursion.

I wonder if someone will watch me reading this book from afar.  I wonder what they will think of us.