shelve it:

“I reorganized the bookshelf,” I say.

He freezes. “Why?”

“It needed moral guidance.”

“It’s a shelf, not a troubled nephew.”

“Yes, but if you saw how poetry was fraternizing with self-help, you’d understand.”

He stares. “I had a system.”

“Yes,” I say, “and I’ve gently retired it.”

“Retired?”

“Humanely. It’s living on a nice mental farm now.”

He pins the bridge of his nose between fingers. “You moved everything, didn’t you?”

“I relocated certain genres to climates better suited to their temperament.”

“Temperament,” he repeats. “You’re talking about books.”

“Yes, and one of them, your dictionary, is holding a grudge.”

He blinks, “Books do not hold grudges.”

“Then why did it fall on your head yesterday?”

“That was gravity.”

“Gravity has taste.”

He opens his mouth, reconsiders, and closes it again.

I grin

“So,” he says finally, “where’s my copy of War and Peace?”

“Oh, that has been promoted.”

“Promoted to what?”

“Doorstop.”

He looks at me, resigned. “You know,” he says, “you’re very lucky I like you.”

“Yup,” I say, arranging the spines.