Caucasian woman, mid 30s, shaggy short brown hair, sleek frame, tucked tight into a buckled black jacket, one gloved hand, the other bare, balancing the book and the second glove, black frames, manicured nails, faint and lovely smell, shoes I don’t recognize but I’m guessing they’re the outfit’s anchor.

Continuity Girl, Leah McLaren (HarperCollins)

She interrupted him with a sharp laugh. “You know, that’s what everyone says about me. I seem so together. So on top of everything. So under control. But you know what I feel like inside? A bomb site. A disaster area.” She opened her eyes wide and pointed to her chest. “I am Beirut.”

Oh my God, you so totally have a run in your stocking. End scene.

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Caucasion girl, 16-17, long brown hair, haunting Husky-blue eyes, pistachio-green long spring coat (out of season), white pants (out of season), black sneakers, adorned with heartbroken boy who leans against the rail watching her read, unruly brown curls falling down past his eyes and the puffy, wet lips that only young teenaged boys can have.

Catch-22, Joseph Heller (Simon & Schuster)

About 80 pages in:

“That’s not what justice is,” the colonel jeered, and began pounding the table again with his big fat hand. “That’s what Karl Marx is. I’ll tell you what justice is. Justice is a knee in the gut from the floor on the chin at night squeaky with a knife brought up down on the magazine of a battleship sandbagged underhanded in the dark without a word of warning.

You don’t know you’re pretty. I wonder, does he see the pretty? The other day you were reading a graphic novel and he looked as if he could cry. He loves you, you know. You wreck him. And he doesn’t even hate you for it. I’ve seen you two before. I sense a love story coming on.

Caucasian woman, early 50s, glasses, blue Mountain Equipment Co-op jacket (you paid the $5 membership), knitted cardigan, white collared shirt, khakis, white running shoes (your “joggers), brown purse with buckled pockets strung across your chest, straightened brown hair with stray greys bouncing out, thin wedding ring, close cropped nails and cuticles, black umbrella dangling from wrist.

Joy Luck Club, Amy Tan (Ivy Books)

About 90 pages in:

At the end of our two-block alley was a small sandlot playground with swings and slides well-shined down the middle with use. The play area was bordered by wood-slat benches where old-country people sat cracking roasted watermelon seeds with their gurgling teeth and scattering the husks to an impatient gathering of gurgling pigeons.

You’re a traveller. You dress for comfort, layered and practical. You fit everything into something else, and use your arm as a coat rack for your umbrella. And yet you carry a book. I wonder, do you rip out the pages as you go, lessening the load, littering garbage bins with the hard work of others? I don’t think so. I think you’ll leave it beside a sleeping body, bundled over a grate in front of St. Mike’s, taking a break from carving bars of soap. You recycle.

South Asian man, early 20s, light weight brown jean jacket with pockets to stuff, green scarf, skinny jeans, black belt, productized short black hair.

I’ve never been able to read and walk. Your stride is huge. How can you walk with such confidence?

Cat’s Cradle, Kurt Vonnegut (Dial Press)

About page 277:

Food was no problem, and neither were clothing or shelter, for the weather was uniformly dry and dead and hot. Our health was monotonously…

Jesus! The curb.

Little jog. Steady pace. And we’re walking. Nice recovery.

…good. Apparently all the germs were dead, too–or napping.