Do you know because I tell you so, or do you know, do you know.

Evian said, "I don't know how to stop," before I knew she was Evian. She was sitting in the library, so she whispered these things, but I heard her still. "I'm moving all the time, I have motion-less sickness. I'm dry," she said. "Like dehydrated." She knew I was listening because why else would she say these things in whispers meant for someone to hear?
"I'm Evian," she said.
"Curtis," I said, because I am tired of meeting people and writing that I've met so-and-so on this blog, and then never really seeing them again and then never writing their names down again on this blog and because what was the point of telling Evian that I was Curt, instead of Curtis? How could it offend her? How could I hurt her feelings? How did I know that her name was Evian, and not Ivana, or Else?
"Do you know because I tell you so, or do you know, do you know," she said.

What is boredom but nonsense? I could have walked away, I could have asked her what she meant, I could have told her that I had been moving, also, that I had lost a great many things and gained in tiny increments, vague, frustrating, and delicious interpretations of myself.
I should have ignored Evian. But she didn't give me a chance. She stood up and walked away.

The barcode on my library card was blurred. The man at the check-out counter told me so. He typed in my numbers and said I had a twenty-five cent fine. I dug in my pockets for a coin and came up with nothing.