She never returned the book.
She hadn’t read it either.
In any case, she wouldn’t even know how to reach him anymore.
In the years since the book was placed into her hands, as she moved from place to place, country to country, she brought the book along with her, thinking it was something she’d eventually read or dispose of.
Maybe if she had felt some guilt, she might’ve made the effort to return it, but, she remembered the one time she opened it up and found a bookmark on page 3 and re-considered the validity of his recommendation. It was enough to make whatever was happening between them off-putting.
He was thoughtless, and so she only went as far as him, as page 3.
She looked at the book once again: hardcover, pale red spine, and thought: but he was the best fuck I ever had.