"What is it?" she asked.
"It's by Stella Gibbons," I said, knowing she'd recognize the author of Cold Comfort Farm. "It's called Nightingale Wood. I got it from the library." That is, the Copley branch of the Boston Public Library. (A. lives in Newton and goes to her local library.)
"I just read, it, too." she said. "I got it out of the library a few weeks ago Was the cover sort of bent?"
"Yes," I said, not entirely convinced that we had both just read the exact same paperback copy of an obscure novel from 1938 in succession. I'd had it reserved for several weeks. And I'd never discussed it with A., although we like to talk about books.
How's that for a coincidence? I wonder which one of you has dibs on it next?