Perfection.

In the soft light the clock ticks rapidly.

Ticktickticktick.

Reality television burbles about the super yachts of the super rich in Monaco.

She is tucked into the corner of the couch, a mending shoulder propped with pillows. I slouch with my book and she drapes her legs over my lap.  The weight of connection is comforting.

"I wonder if any of these writers are still alive?" I remark , running my eye over the last page of a book of short stories. I purchased it for four dollars at the second-hand bookstore and coffee shop that we visited on two days ago. It was published in 1977.

"Bub Bridger. I know that name."

She sends me a link to one of Bub Bridger's poems via Facebook Messenger. I tap it open on my phone. Its short. Sharp. Clever. Deep.

I hand over the musty paperback open at the page with Bub Bridger's story The Girl in the River on it.

"Its good. You'll like it."

She holds the book up to catch the light from the old standard lamp and speedily consumes the story.

She nods and raises her eyebrows in agreement.

We both pick up our phones and scroll through Facebook.