Page 41 of What We Don't Say: Part Two

Dash rests one shoulder against the shelf. “You’d assign the introduction first?”

“Part of it.” I hold the book toward him, keeping my finger against the section I mean. “The other edition expects them to understand the historical pressure before it gives them enough context to discuss it. Then I lose the first class giving them what the editor should’ve given them before page one.”

He reads the paragraph I indicated and stays quiet long enough that I know he disagrees before he says anything.

“I’d give them the chronology and make them read this after the first discussion.” He turns the book slightly, pointing to the editor’s framing near the end of the page. “This gives them too much shape before they’ve had to name the problem themselves.”

“They’re not coming in with nothing, though. They’ve had the survey prerequisite.”

“Which means some of them remember the plays were written before electricity and one of them will confidently misidentify a monarch.” Dash hands the book back to me. “Let them be wrong where you can see it.”

I look down at the page again, irritated by the fact that I understand his point. “That is exactly the sort of answer I’d expect from someone who teaches philosophy.”

“I’ll try to recover.”

“You seem calm for a man being accused.”

His eyes meet mine over the top of the open book. “I’ve had practice.”

Someone comes into the aisle carrying a basket, and I shift closer to Dash to make room. My knee brushes his as I stand, and his hand comes briefly to my elbow when the movement puts me too close to the shelf behind me. He lets go onceI’m steady, but my skin remains aware of the place his fingers touched.

I close the book and tuck it against my chest. “I’m buying it.”

“That seemed likely.”

“Quiet.”

His gaze drops to the book for a moment before he turns toward the next aisle. “Philosophy is over here.”

I follow him toward the philosophy shelves which are less organized than literature, with several books stacked sideways where there isn’t enough room and an entire lower row that seems to have surrendered to gravity.

Dash moves directly to the end of the aisle and crouches in front of a section near the floor. I browse the titles above him until he pulls out a faded green hardcover and stills with it in his hands.

“That the one you came for?”

“One of them.” He opens the front cover, then turns to the table of contents. The paper has yellowed at the edges, and someone’s name is written in careful ink across the inside page.

“You used to own it?”

“I did.”

I lean one shoulder against the shelf across from him. “What happened?”

“My brother took it.”

The answer comes without strain, though his eyes stay on the page.

“Older or younger?” I ask.

“Older.” Dash turns another page and finds something near the middle. “Five years. He took things when we were kids, usually because he wanted to read the parts I cared about without asking me why I cared.”

“That sounds annoying.”

“It was.” His thumb smooths over the edge of the page. “He’d leave books in the wrong rooms afterward, which made it worse. This one vanished before I left for graduate school.”

“Did he like it?”

“One essay.” Dash’s mouth softens as he looks down at the table of contents. “He thought the rest was pretentious, then spent three weeks arguing with me about the only piece he enjoyed.”