I just finished Six Bad Things, a book by Charlie Huston.  It's a bloody crime romp, the main character a man who gets mixed up and lost in a series of unfortunate events that drive him further and further into his own damnation.  With guns.  It's the second part of a trilogy that started with Caught Stealing.  My kind of book really. 

I had started reading it with Star.  I had read the first book with Star as well.  Well, not with Star as she wasn't reading the book, but I had bought both books while we were at Barnes and Noble together, nuzzling our way through the racks.  I had blown through the first book in about two days and picked up the second a couple of weeks later.  I had been reading it at her place, leaving it there so that I had something to read in bed while she took her shower or so I could look over it and watch her while she typed away at her keyboard. 

The book had been sitting in my living room for weeks.  I couldn't pick it up.  I'd grabbed it from her place when we were emptying it out and brought it home and I just couldn't finish it.  I'd read a page or two and my mind would wander.  I'd think of her, and I'd think about how I should be finishing this book while laying in bed next to her as she plugged letters into crossword puzzles. 

Last night I picked up the book again.  I was able to read almost forty pages.  This was a feat.  And tonight-- tonight I finished the book.  I teared up a little at the end, and not because the ending of the book was even a little bit tear-inducing.  I had finished something that I had started with Star.  I could use it as a metaphor, and an obvious one at that, how there are so many things in my life now that I started with her and that I will have to finish on my own.  Tonight though, I just wish that I could close the book and tell her that it was cool.  I wish that I could wave my hands around and describe some it to her.  I wish that I could get her to laugh.