Potatoes. They were on my plate at dinner. I ate them. They tasted fine. After dinner I went to the bookstore and thought of you. I think of you there most, though we never shared our favorite books with each other. I don't know if you like Tolstoy or Camus, Kurt Vonnegut or George Orwell. But I think of you most often at the bookstore. Or the library. Anywhere with a million stories and possibilities between fresh and aging paper. I think of us that way, a million possibilities; a story waiting to be written or read. A story to be passed on, or one with a sequel. A story that ends in love, or ends in death. It doesn't matter, I always wonder what that story might be. Whether Nicholas Sparks would write us in, or would Austen tell our love story. Would it be a story that Shakespeare penned, or Stephen King? Are we a Tale of Two Cities, or a Midsummer Night's Dream? I always think of you in bookstores..