A stapled receipt falls out of the used book I’m reluctantly reading. It’s from an Italian restaurant on East 42nd Street. Dinner for one. A ten-dollar glass of chardonnay and a $30 plate of tagliata al rosemary. I wonder if she had stopped reading on page 103 and never finished. I wonder if she was reading this book, the section on Rome, in an Italian restaurant while eating a $50 meal alone.