Narcissus Reads Joan Didion

 She pulled a copy of Joan Didion’s “Salvador” off the shelf and studied the dust jacket. Narcissus snatched the book out of her hand so fast she nearly received a paper cut.

“You don’t want to read that,” he badgered. “It sucks.”

“I might like –” she started.

“You ever read Didion? No, I didn’t think so.”

He searched the book store shelf, locating a trade paperback of Didion’s “Play It As It Lays”.

“Try this one instead. Excellent fucking novel. Quintessential L.A. You don’t know this town until you’ve read ‘Play It As It Lays’. They should hand it out to new arrivals at LAX.”

She bit her lower lip and read the blurb on the back, shaking her head. “No, I don’t think so. It sounds a little existential.”

“Existential? You make this judgment without reading the book?” Narcissus was practically apoplectic. “Do you know how much this book means to me? I read again it last year. It’s funny how a book can take on a different meaning years after you first read it.”

“I don’t think so,” she said with a hint of apology in her tone. “Just not for me.”

“Alright then,” he snagged the book and immediately replaced it with a hardback edition of “The Year of Magical Thinking.” She was repulsed, literally backing away from the book he was extending to her, recalling the review she had read of Didion’s memoir in the Sunday LA Times.

“No way,” she said firmly. “I have enough death and depression in my life and you know it. How dare you even insinuate I should read this?”

“Because it’s a great book, goddamnit.”

“Says you.”

“Exactly. At least I know my Joan Didion. You express interest in one of her most inferior books. Go ahead. See if I care.”

She smiled thinly, picked up “Salvador” once more, and started for the counter.

“You’re just doing this to spite me,” Narcissus said.