On a cold, snowy January night, someone wrote to our neighborhood listserv to see if anyone was interested in starting a book club. I think everyone was suffering from an overdose of snowstorms and a bad case of cabin fever because there was a huge response. The Larches Book Club had its first meeting ten days later.
People came out of their houses, bundled and booted, to make their way to Lori’s home. Twenty neighbors showed up, seventeen women and three men. There was a delicious array of desserts and drinks. We finally settled down to the business of the evening and decided what kind of books we wanted to read, how often we wanted to meet, and who would host the next meeting. We also chose our first book, Major Pettigrew’s Last Stand.
On Monday night we had our first real meeting. It was a lively and informative conversation. It was evident that there are some smart readers in our neighborhood. But the male attendance had dropped to only one—Peter.
I sat next to him, allegedly to protect him from all those women, but more likely so that those women knew that he belonged to me.
On the way home, I asked him how he felt about being the only male present. He said, “I didn’t notice.”
Either Peter only has eyes for me, or he needs to see his optometrist.