She read the last page first
It drove me nuts
With each new book
She’d turn to the end
With a mischievous grin
It’s my little technique
She’d say
I can stand the saddest tale
Without crying, when I know
How it all turns out

– That’s not the way you do it!
I’d protest, huffily
Between e-mails
– If the author had wanted that
He’d have made it page 1
– Then I’d have to read
The second-to-last page first
Wouldn’t I?
She’d reply, in a tetchy tone

I didn’t pursue the matter
I was snowed under
And she tended to read
At a frustratingly
Slow pace

The months passed
And our romance
Was going well, I felt
We laughed and loved
And turned pages quickly
Chapters flowed like wine
When I wasn’t dining clients
And managed
To follow the plot

Until one day I noticed
A new book
On the coffee table
A notebook
All the pages were blank
When she saw me looking
She said
– It’s my new story
I’m sorry

– After all this time
You don’t even seem sad
I said, as my telephone
Pinged poignantly
– Maybe, she said
– But I thought you knew
I have this little technique