The person who owned this copy of Returning to Reims by Didier Eribon before me liked to underline the passages that struck him in a red felt tip pen. I know his name and that he’s a psychoanalyst, because he left his card and signed his name on the title page: dated July 15, 2016, in Santurce. I’d give you his first name for added color, but I don’t know how many psychoanalysts there are in Santurce. 

I found the book in Miramar, at a tiny kiosk of used books within a space that also houses La Lagrimita, a stick and poke tattoo studio where I’ve gotten work done by my friend Alex. She’s poked a tomato, a lemon slice, and a halo onto my knuckles. If I’m lucky, she’ll do some more.

It was the spine that caught my eye, because it was clearly put out by Semiotext(e), and I have been obsessed with this publishing house ever since I had my I Love Dick moment in 2013. (I can only hope that my original copy, marked up as a 27-year-old woman fresh out of a decade-long relationship, is still floating about somewhere in Brooklyn, because I lent it to someone to whom I no longer speak and have since replaced it on my shelves. This, after I’d already gone to lengths [Astoria] to get it back from a person I’d been casually seeing… )