The New Yorker

It sits probably less than half a foot from my one left foot. Somewhat creased in the middle, folded cover to cover so that only the page I am reading is visible, and the page I’ve just read is face down on the coach. The pages are wavy, but not wavy like the wavy pages you get when your book gets rained on, or when you spill water on an airplane and it gets in the pages. Just wavy. No smudges of the ink either, which is surprising, as my sweaty hands typically create these inky blots on the page. Still readable, but blurry like when I’ve got my glasses off. I remember the first time this happened. I was reading the Times I think, and when I got up I had the front page all over my palms and my finger tips. This happened before I was twelve. The magazine is flipped upside down, so what I thought was the bottom right corner of the page is actually the top left, and the hidden page, as I thought but was too afraid to say, the one that is face down, is actually the next page in the article. There is a large B, but at perhaps 3 feet away, this is all I can read of anything on the page. From here, I can tell the page is filled with letters, but the whitespace is small enough that the letters do not appear to create… actually, from here, I use other clues to tell that it is filled with letters, like the fact that I was just reading it and that the closest edges are actually, if I concentrate hard enough, almost readable. But at the far edge of the page, it looks as though the page may be filled with just a string of letters without spaces except at the end of paragraphs, as though someone might try to convince you that they had written something – from afar everything looks as it should, but up close, it’s really devoid of meaning.