She buys poetry books. Hers is a modest collection. Classic Love Poems. Palgrave’s Golden Treasury. faber and faber Poetry Essentials. There are recommendations. Impulse buys. Childhood favourites (which, if she is honest, are the only ones she actually reads). Some she has bought because of the look on the face of the Charing Cross shop owner. (Disbelief). She is envious of others. They read things that are not there. Things that exist only in the spaces between the words. She cannot see these things. She looks at her small collection every day and the cup of green tea Dr. Oz tells her to drink. Antioxidants. She thinks, tomorrow. I will begin tomorrow. The tea bag swells in the water and bleeds its pale green. The tea grows cold. And the books remain unread.