Caucasian woman, late 20s, with long brown hair tied back in a neat ponytail, wearing broad purple frames, a long red wool coat and a green and red flecked angora scarf. She cracks the spine a few times and begins, using the gift tag as her bookmark.

The Whole Story and Other Stories, Ali Smith (Hamish Hamilton)

Page 1:

There was a man dwelt by a churchyard.
Well, no, okay, it wasn’t always a man; in this particular case it was a woman. There was a woman dwelt by a churchyard.
Though, to be honest, nobody really uses that word nowadays. Everybody says cemetery. And nobody says dwelt any more. In other words:

When she gets to page 3 she’ll find a confession of love scribbled into the spine. It won’t be from the young man who gifted her the book, it was bought second-hand. Still, she’ll think, People just don’t use words like this anymore. She’ll stand. She’ll look down the platform, both ways. She’ll look at the sky, blank. She’ll draw her purse strap over her shoulder and think, Think, think, think. She’ll head toward the stairs and stop, halted, on the first step. She’ll bounce on the balls of her feet and look back at the platform.

She knows he’s only home for the holidays.

But when they’d emerged from the pub a fog had rolled in so thick that he’d taken her arm and guided her away from the curb like it was cliff. They’d walked through the emptying streets, her arms circled around his, childhood friends falling into the other’s step, their short breaths pulled into the dense blanket that enclosed them. We could scream all our secrets and no one would hear them, she’d said. I’ve only the one, he’d replied, giving her waist a gentle squeeze.

A blast of air from the incoming train will catch her ponytail in a swirl. She’ll glance up the stairs, adjust her purse strap again, and place her hand on the railing.

Caucasian man, early 40s, with short blonde hair and a deep receding hairline, sleepy oval blue eyes, wearing a beige turtleneck under a black Polo jacket. Propped between his legs is a large shopping bag, stuffed with unwrapped presents, and a bright pink rolling suitcase. A young girl, blonde, with sleepy oval blue eyes rests her head on his shoulder, picking at her festively painted fingernails. He adjusts his arm so she can snuggle in closer. He kisses her forehead and continues to read over the top of her head.

The Tipping Point, Malcolm Gladwell (Little, Brown)

Page 46:

Connectors are important for more than simply the number of people they know. Their importance is also a function of the kinds of people they know. Perhaps the best way to understand this point is through the popular parlor game “Six Degrees of Kevin Bacon.”

His mind races. He knows he’s just tired, but he can’t stop thinking. Phrases are playing over in his head. Gestures. That time in the kitchen when she just stood there, just standing, her head lowered, her arm outstretched, her palm held up in a weak stop sign. Was it then? The moment she wanted to say that something had happened, maybe something hadn’t happened, that something could happen, would happen, if he didn’t…what? If he didn’t what? There was an Enough moment. He saw it. Her arm had fallen limp, hitting the kitchen counter before falling against her thigh in a dull thud. She rubbed her wrist, finally looking at him, and it was enough. And he did nothing. He wonders, riding home to their new apartment, his daughter’s head slipping down the front of his chest in exhaustion, how many degrees it took for his wife to end up on a beach with her new lover watching Santa arrive on a jet ski.

Caucasian woman, early 20s, wearing a sleek black coat, collar high. I didn’t recognize her immediately, we all pile on and throw ourselves into any opening, making way for the circus of people who’d sooner swing from the back doors than wait for the next car. I hear her sniffle and smile, looking forward and placing my pad on my lap, pen holding my place, in full view.

Brick Lane, Monica Ali (Scribner)

Page 275:

She went into the bedroom and observed her husband heaped in the middle of the bed, listened to his innocent snores. Then she found the letters, bundled together and wrapped like holy relics, inside her underwear drawer, and took them out of the room.

She sat on the edge of the schoolyard, to the other side of the gravel track. Football players ran through tires and sprinted the length of the field while she drew thick black strokes on her pale ankle under the cover of low tree branches. She pulled up her black hood so even the tiniest sliver of sunshine couldn’t kiss her cheeks. They’d made out here for the first time, skipping out on rehearsal for Joseph and the Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat. Coming here to press against one another on the cold ground, it was the only time they had unchaperoned. And she’d allowed herself to crave it. Now he wanted to meet, to talk, his letter had said. She rolled the piercing in her tongue, an involuntary impulse since they’d gotten them done together last week. This morning, she saw him laughing in the hall, opening his mouth so The Soprano could see the empty cavern. What a wimp, she thought. She took a swig from her Listerine and tossed the empty into the brush. Jesus H., she swore, and reached in to retrieve the bottle, brushing loose grass from its lip, letting the form cradle into her palm. She jumped when he kicked the sole of her police boot. She refused to look at him. (You will not cry. You will not cry.)

Thanks to the National Post and Kristine Owram for her article on Seen Reading. Another vote for the Non-Creepy camp! Score!

Caucasian woman, early 30s, with long blonde hair, oval glasses and bitten down fingernails, wearing a long leather coat (maybe five seasons old), black jeans and black leather boots.

The Last Days of Dogtown, Anita Diamant (Simon & Schuster)

Page 219:

Newell gulped his tea and handed her the cup while a few men gathered to watch. Easter picked it up, eyed her audience with a mysterious twinkle, and swirled the dregs. Covering the cup with a saucer, she flipped it over with a quick motion and set it on the counter.

Sitting at the tall table, perched on a bar stool, she picks at her eggs, wondering if she should move her backpack from the stool across from her. It’s the second Tuesday of the month and the pub is filling quickly, people lining up to spell out their names, letter by letter, over the din of stereo music and a sizzling grill. They peer into the back to see a row of numerologists, tarot card readers and astrologists preparing their makeshift stations. Cones of incense cast an inviting glow reflecting the warmth of flowing batique fabrics.

The woman got here early, ordering her complimentary breakfast before her reading so she could leave immediately after, sit in the park and contemplate. She always sees the same person, Abella. Abella is kind, easy with a laugh, and surprisingly down to earth. The woman moves past the eggs onto the roasted potatoes with fragrant chunks of onion and red pepper. She manoeuvres her fork patiently, skewering one potato per tine. She rests her chin in her hand, studying the fork. It’s swallowed in the glare of the front window. Her eyes adjust, her focus settling on the face of another woman, about her age, about to turn 40. She too picks at her brunch, the french toast, hugging the wall of the booth seat she managed to secure. A journal sits open in front of her, a pen hanging loosely in her hand, tipped upright. She’ll have to give it a good shake, the woman thinks.

Her name is called. She signals to the bar staff that it’s okay to take her plate, she’s done. It was very good, thank you. She gathers her coat and backpack, unraveling her scarf from around her neck and fluffing her hair. She walks into the back room to meet Abella’s awaiting smile. She sits.

“You said younger. My question is, How much younger?”