Now Playing: “Lovefool” by The Cardigans

I woke up this morning and found Word Raccoon in my blue chair downstairs reading. 

“Hey,” I said. 

She waved a paw in which she was holding a protein bar. In her other, she clutched the novel we’d fallen asleep reading the night before. 

“Give me that,” I said, but she simply put down the protein bar wrapper and picked up a glass of something that looked suspiciously like Coke Zero. 

“You know you only get that when you’ve done all the things,” I said. 

She sucked from the straw while staring straight into my eyes, then went back to reading.

“Fine, but only for half an hour,” I said. I set a timer on my phone. She laughed and went back to reading. She was probably 70 pages from the end.

The timer might not do any good, but it was the only defense I had against her and the possible rain. 

“We are a poet. We are a novelist. We do not spend all day reading except when it’s scheduled.” 

She made a gesture at me. 

Rude, Raccoon! 

When the second timer went off, she was reading the acknowledgements. (As we do, because sometimes we know the people mentioned and it’s always fun to spot someone we know.) 

“It was a romance,” she said, as if the library label on the book didn’t say so. “We don’t usually read romances,” but she looked at me like maybe we should. 

“We read them when they’re as strange and funny and tender as this one,” I said. I wasn’t about to pretend I wasn’t as into the book as she was. 

“Now,” I said, “I let you read for a whole hour. Get off your dead ass and get ready to go do the things. And it’s hair washing day. No, don’t give me that look. I know you hate having wet hair indoors, but we are not spending time drying it. If the sun comes out, we’ll sit outside. If not, deal.”

Surprisingly, she got up. 

She put in her signature earrings, naturally and her bracelet from Rome. The string is getting weak on it, so she’d better consider restringing it soon. Although looking at it more closely today, I don’t see the Parthenon. Maybe I should repaint one of the tiles so it’s there. I don’t really need two pics of the Trevi fountain. Definitely not two of the Coliseum. That place has bad vibes. 

And her earrings? For some reason people ask to touch them. Which…okay? 

Word Raccoon says I need to be fair and tell you that she was busy yesterday. She claims she is hardworking. I’m not as impressed as she is, but whatever. 

I saw her sneak that novel to the gym yesterday. How hard are you working if you’re reading there? (Okay, maybe I’ll give her that for now if she’s showing up.)

We wrote two poems, “Knocking Stars Out of the Known Sky,” and “Alluding Perusing.” 

We revised them both and submitted them. (I know, I know. Let them mellow. But also, when you know, you know? Until I don’t again. I’m onto me and this cycle.) 

We took a stash of our poems that were all rolled together and created separate google docs for them. We added some to our master list that we had overlooked.

We put more themes to the poems on our master list. Miles to go, but we’ll get there and we will thank ourselves when we do. 

We discovered a poem that refused to be tamed or shaped and it won’t hear me that it’s really not a poem. It’s a drunken slurry of words. 

We rooted around and found some markets to investigate yesterday, too. I love it when I see one and think, “Yes, you’re my people.” But they have to agree. 

Do you know how long it takes to hear back, usually? Weeks. Months, even. 

That’s okay. I can be patient when it’s something I really want. 

Anyhow, would you like to know more about the book we finished reading on this rainy day that may or may not rain more? 

Serial Killer Games by Kate Posey (her debut novel!) is charming, adorable, and not at all what I expected. 

I got pulled in. Hard. Not in the way I expected, either. I’d picked up the book thinking it would scratch that dark thriller itch. You know the one, murders, twisted psychology, creepy office temp who might be a killer and might just be muy caliente.

Note: we don’t like knives or gore. In fact, I often have to give myself a pep talk before using my largest knives. And being in the presence of someone else using one? Even watching it on TV? Flinch city! 

But we do like trying to understand the mind of serial killers, especially when presented in a quirky way. 

But Posey so sneakily, so sweetly, drops you into a slow-burn romance that pretends it’s going to be all about murder, and instead gives you a cat-and-mouse flirtation that’s deliciously off-kilter. Definitely Word Raccoon fodder. 

Jake and Dodi (yes, Dolores dela Cruz, but Dodi to him) leave each other tiny, deranged gifts which are hilarious. I’d like that, but not the deranged part. Strange, sure. Just not that strange. 

Pebbles? Single flowers? A pinecone? Sure. 

I guess every couple has their unique love language. I don’t think Dr. Chapman has that one on his list, though: Gifts. But doll parts and… yeah I can’t tell you more because it would be a mild spoiler.

The pair speak in doublespeak, all while watching each other out of the corners of their eyes like people who are trying so hard not to fall. But we know it’s already too damn late. 

It’s weird. It’s cute. It’s a little unhinged in the best way. There are so many tiny heartbreaks along the way, but just as many true moments of connection, and you’re hoping all the way through that neither of them is it. 

Here’s one of those heartbreaks:

“The thing is,” I say, “I have a life.” 

She continues… “At the end of the day, when we’re done playing our stupid serial killer games at the office, I go home and my real life begins.”

“This could be real life,” he says. 

…It was self-defense, your honor. (Dodi imagines.)

This book was not what I expected, and I’m thrilled about that. And let’s just say the ending is not what you’d expect, either. 

Kinda like life sometimes. 

All in all, I’d say it’s a novel that leads to justifiable non-scheduled reading time. 

Then again, WR does not like schedules. Don’t tell her we are (sometimes) on one.