When I'm sitting next to someone on public transportation and we're both reading a book, I enjoy annoying them by reading faster and turning the page before they do. If they don't notice what I'm doing, I'll cough loudly every time I turn said page. They will shift in their seat, realizing what is occurring and what is at stake. Frankly, I give them no choice in accepting the challenge. The prospect of losing face and confidence as an efficient reader compels them to participate.
Back and forth we go, flipping pages, breathing quickened, brows knotted, blasting through entire chapters. My rival invariably falls behind. Why? Because I only take James Paterson books with me on my travels, with five page chapters and middle school prose. If my foe is reading James Joyce or Virginia Woolf, you can guess the outcome. I don't like losing.
But sometimes they will fake it, pretending to flip through pages with complete comprehension. Their jittery manner tips me off. Guilt swallows them, haunts them. They are disrespecting classic authors. More importantly, they will become even more annoyed at me because once they disembark they will have to reread every sentence they skimmed to get meaning and subtext.
No one reads James Patterson for the subtext.
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