It's quiet enough in the house right now that I can hear the ticking of the clock on the shelf. I've been listening to it for the past 5 minutes, thinking. Deciding.
It all started innocently enough. Friday night I was ready to start a new book, and picked up one that I've read at least 3 times before. It's not a long read, and I knew I could put it down and walk away from it when I needed to do something else.
Saturday I woke up early, and thought I might as well finish the book--after all, it wouldn't take long. Enjoy my coffee as I read to the end and then back on the shelf. But somewhere about halfway through the second cup of coffee, without really thinking about it, I let the just-finished book slide down my lap to the sofa as I reached for the never-read-before book resting on the end table and opened to page one. I didn't mean to, but it was too late.
Then later on Saturday, the never-read having become an already-read, I found myself in front of the shelf behind the big chair in the family room. Looking. I had done several of the small chores around the house and had spent a couple hours running errands with Husband. There was more to to. My hand was on book two of the series that the Friday book starts...yes, I know. I should never have started a well-loved series. I thought I could stop. I was wrong.
I'm now sitting here. Listening to the clock and looking back and forth. The school bags on the floor at my feet with unfinished work, and the unfinished-but-read-before-and started-again book three of that series on the arm of the sofa across from me. The end with the bookmark sticking out is facing me. It's already halfway to the end.