The books were stacked against the walls, long spindly columns of paperbacks. Propped up on a stack was a beat up, moldy-looking copy of In Watermelon Sugar. A man with long, flaxen hair glowered ghoulishly behind a stoic young brunette.

-Jesus, you said. Can you be any more intense?

-Who, me?

-No, him. Dick. Brautigan. On the cover.

-Could that be him?

-Who else could it be?

-And the girl?

-Who knows? His girlfriend? 


-Yeah, who knows? I answered. Though it's not as if he could hear you.


-Who knows? 


Later, you propped up the book on the coffee table. You served oolong tea and Danish cookies. I told stupid jokes about hippies. Dick Brautigan or whoever the man was on the book glowered at us some more.