We are in Buenos Aires, far from my home.
I am alerted to a loud noise inside my house, thousands of miles away. I ask Mom and Eric to investigate, worried that I've just started the tense moments of a horror show.
Eric walks over to the bookcase I have recently moved into the living room - gym - office - dining room space. The bookcase holds a large number of hardback books, most of which I'm interested in reading, but have not read yet.
Eric looks at the books. He pauses at each section, possibly reading the titles of each. He lingers. I watch.
And wonder what those books are saying about me. Are they telling Eric I'm messed up? Are they telling him I"m technical? Are they telling him I'm suddenly, weirdly fascinated by history?
Or are they telling him I'm human?
And love to read.