Patrick's Surfaces VIII

"There was something that I asked of you," I said.

"Zachary, what book?" The annoyance in her voice was much less powerful than the thought that there was something that I'd asked of her.

"Is it in the book?" I asked.

"Is what in what book?"

"The book that you want me to remember. Is what I asked of you in that book?"

"No," she said.

"No?"

"No. It's not in the book."

"Ok," I said. "I'll tell you the book, if you tell me what I asked of you."

"No."

"What?"

"No," she said.

"So you don't want to know what book?"

Her silence prompted me to open my eyes, pull my chin up, and look directly at her, at the screen. She wasn't looking at me at all. She was looking down. She looked dim, the screen was as if dimmed, though we were well past such mechanics. I couldn't see her face, but her shoulders looked sad.

"The Surfaces of Wemoreland," I said, trying on my WJAZ soft voice.

"By whom?" I heard her say.

"Patrick Wemore," I said.