By Rosanne Pagano
His email said he’d be late on our last night of class: “I have to pick up some art.” Maybe I made a note on the roster. Ours was a summer literature class, pledged to reading nine classics in 12 weeks. We’d done it. Who comes late to a victory like that? Eventually he showed and opened his Post-it-littered book. Nothing amiss except for slight crinkling whenever he shifted in his seat. “My new art,” he said, raising his shirt to reveal a tattoo still taped with plastic wrap. Inked over his heart was an open book, its pages blank and waiting.