Lindsay blushes. She abruptly decides that the book she needs is somewhere far away, so she’d better go upstairs or leave. These are clearly the only options.
She goes upstairs. This means that the book she is looking for will be non-fiction or non-existent at this point.
Lindsay searches.
All of the books she finds, not surprisingly, due to the loose parameters of her search, seem like they might either be helpful or completely useless. She makes a big pile on a table, and sits down to sort through them.
Time passes. Piles appear.
Are you anxious to know whether she talks to that guy? You know who he is.
She thinks about talking to him while checking out. What would she say? “You’re right, you do look in paprika. Do you have that Haruki Murakami in? Oh, only one copy? I guess you and I could share, if we had to. Shall we say your place, at seven?”
Lindsay hates cheese. Unless it’s made of dairy. Then it’s the best. It’s not like she’s some recent presidential candidate whose quirks include eating pizza with the cheese removed. What a maniac! And I voted for him, too! And he won, too!
Anyway.
Let’s just let her keep looking.
Also, it might be helpful if she has piles of more than one. Otherwise it’s just a widely spread range of singe-book categories. I'm just saying.
She’s aware of this. If she could think of better categories, she would. It’s not like she’s in a high school Advanced Placement Language and Composition class studying classification as an essay format. Come on.
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