The market was already packing up when the rain arrived, tarps snapping over the last crates of apples. I bought a small bag of the bruised ones they were about to discard and ate two on the walk home, standing under the library eaves until the shower thinned.
Inside, the reading room smelled like wet wool. I returned the novel that had sat on the nightstand for three weeks and left with nothing new. Some days the point is to put a thing back.