It's been six years since we started having the same conversation every Monday at 5 pm - the one where Alex inevitably asks if we've started reading any real books lately and I sheepishly rummage through my notes on David Foster Wallace's lesser-known essays. Rachel always chimes in with some well-meaning recommendation from the literary magazine I secretly haven't cracked open since college. I glance at her bright smile and my coffee, unsure which is more genuine: my friend's attempts to get me to read better or my own reluctance to be found out.
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