A couple days ago, Martha had in fact asked if we had a copy of Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close, which I had read a couple years ago,because she wants to read it. I said that I'd find it for her. My bookshelves, much to her chagrin, are unorganized AND stuffed to the gills, making easy retrieval unlikely, so when she expressed interest I told her I'd get it for her. Which I did last night, taking it off the bedroom bookcase and dusting it off.
This morning, remembering that I had in fact found it but hadn't given it to her yet, I spent a good deal of time looking to see where I had put it. I looked all over our bedroom and was confused that I couldn't spot it right away since not enough time had passed that other things (clean laundry, mail, stuff for the new semester, my laptop, other books, etc.) might've covered it up.
I looked on the bookshelf to see if, after getting it, I had just put it back on the shelf, but it wasn't there -- and I was struck by how I couldn't even find a place where the book had been. (But then I remembered how crammed my bookshelves can be, so that tight-fittedness wasn't out of the realm of possibility either!)
So I looked all over the house (the kitchen, family room, dining room, living room, and basement) thinking, maybe, just maybe, on the way to giving it to her I put it down to do something else.
I thought back to last night and remembered being puzzled that the cover, which I couldn't now describe to Martha, was different than the one I was expecting (i.e., the one seen above).
Then, looking in the basement again, I found it -- with the correct cover -- on a bookshelf.
Clearly I had never found the book last night. Clearly I had never dusted it off last night. Clearly I had never seen a cover I didn't recognize last night.
It must have all been a dream. An incredibly vivid dream.
Either that or I'm being gaslighted!
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