movement, how you lift yourself from reading, simultaneously cock your head and close your eyes, hearing a voice you half don’t want to, prompted by some chance happening on the page, or music in the background, or footsteps on the sidewalk beneath your window, someone you loved who’s gone now, dead or in Boulder, maybe even moved back and living two streets over but they use a different grocery store and never go to the post office. I catch myself doing that, too.