Nine moments of the second book having existed for two years.
Spring 2049. Jan is 51. The book was written across seven years (2042–2049), in the years after Mom died. It is, by deliberate design, quieter than the first. It has, by 2049, sold ~22,000 copies in two years. Daria is still her agent; Liminal Press is still the publisher.
Two books on the shelf.
Sunday at Four — 88 pages, cream cover, 2031. The Long Quiet — 234 pages, slightly darker, slightly thicker, 2047. Side by side. Eight notebooks beside them, filled across twenty-three years. I look at this sometimes from the kitchen doorway. The physical evidence doesn't know it's evidence. It's just the shelf.
Daria's email: *TLQ at two years, total sales: 22,140.
Steady. Holding the line. — D. The first book did roughly 17,000 in its first two years. The second did five thousand more in the same window. I write back: Thank you for the steady. Not writing a third for a while. The pace is right. — J. Daria: good. — D.* Three words. The conversation is over. I close the email and go make tea.
9:14 AM Wednesday.
The Brooklyn Book Council Prize email. Three finalists. Ceremony in late April in Brooklyn Heights. $2,000 and a letterpress certificate from a shop in Red Hook. I read it three times and then forward it to Daria without adding a note. Daria, within the hour: go to it. Bring August. Wear something nice. Lose or win, the night is the same. — D. She has met me before.
Told August Wednesday evening.
He said that's good news. He said are you going. I said yes. He said I will come with you. I said I'd hoped you would. He said April 22 — I'll wear the dark jacket I bought in 2046 and have worn three times. Charcoal wool. Bargemusic Schubert recital, Naomi's retirement dinner, a Fort Greene wedding. This would be number four. He's been saving it for occasions. I'm apparently an occasion.
April 22, Friday.
Dress from a shop on Atlantic that sells linen and silk and nothing else. Cream. Simple. I am fifty-one years old, standing in front of the small mirror in a dress I bought for the occasion of possibly not winning a prize. August appears in the doorway in the dark jacket. He says you look ready. I say I am. He says twenty minutes to the subway. I say I know. I put my earrings in.
Ninety-two minutes.
The prize announcement is at minute eighty-eight. The winner: Borough of Churches — three centuries of Brooklyn's religious architecture. Also good. I clap. I'd known. The Long Quiet is forty-eight short pieces about being alone in a familiar apartment. The architecture book was more obviously a prize book. I'm not disappointed — honestly, actually not. The dress was right. August is beside me. The book is still the book. The book is on the shelf at home right now.
The L train home.
Half-empty. We don't talk about the ceremony. We talk about Sarah's new dog in Oakland — a beagle mix, possibly a menace — about whether Ruth still throws bowls at the Y (she does; she's 79 and still does), about whether the bodega guy is working when we get off at Greenpoint. He is. We get a bag of chips. The Prize is already in the past by the time we're on the platform.
Home at 10:14 PM.
Lamp on. June — fourteen, wider in the middle, slower on the jumps — gets on the chair-arm. August makes tea. I sit in the chair in the cream dress with the cardigan over it because the apartment is always slightly cool. The prize wasn't won. The book is on the shelf. I've been preparing for exactly this kind of night since 2026, apparently.
Wednesday morning, six days after.
Three sentences in the notebook: The book was a finalist. The book didn't win. The book is still the book. Read it back. Didn't touch it. Daria emailed Monday: steady continues. Two more bookstore re-orders this week. — D. The kettle is on. The lamp is on. The morning is the morning.