She bought him a book by John Barth as a birthday gift.
“You like him, don’t you?” she asked.
He didn’t know how to tell her that it was Donald Barthelme whom he enjoyed. Barth. Barthelme. Yeah, they sounded similar. But then there were Frederick, Steven, and Donald Barthelme, each with his own unique style, not unlike Barth, but it was Donald’s minimalist absurdism that he loved most.
He looked at the cover (Tidewater having since evolved into Hampton Roads, with hopes of becoming “The 757”) and nodded. After all, he had nothing against Barth.
“It’s perfect,” he responded, smiling.
Photo Credit: Gabriele Diwald
Thanks, Ran. Like all good stories – more than a nub of truth. And then there’s Roland Barthes, who couldn’t have written a 100-word story to save himself.