I liked a girl who used all sorts of things as bookmarks.
She rode my bus, and it started on a snowy early-dismissal Tuesday when I saw her reading in the mirror above the driver's head – her dark brown hair (almost black) pulled back into a bun, her knees pushed up against the seat in front of her, and her book – Brideshead Revisited – marked with an empty restaurant match booklet. A few days later she was reading Thirteen Reasons Why and keeping her page with a faded fisheye photograph of a farm; after that it was The Hotel New Hampshire and a plastic spoon.
I wrote her a love note – a long one on graph paper with little charts in the corner (fig. 3: "how happy I am vs. how close I am to you") – and gave it to her one day when we were sitting together on the way home. She read it and then looked out the window. I didn't push the matter further.
Right before her stop she reached into her bag, took out The Poetry of Oscar Wilde, and removed her bookmark, which was, in this case, a receipt for a vegetarian burrito from Chipotle. She slipped my note in its place and then kissed my cheek as she stood up to get off the bus.
Sometimes I see people with bookmarks for bookmarks and I laugh.
This is, by the way, my 500th post. Also thanks to Meredith for being such a great hand model.