Books need rubbers, too

Two nights ago I was rapt in the new Murakami novel. I took it from my couch to my bed, and as I read in bed, my eyes became like lead. There was nary a scrap of paper that I could put between the pages to keep my place. The dust jacket was safely in another room, and I couldn't muster the energy to leave my comfortable bed. I opened the nightstand and, like every responsible bachelor, discovered a cache of prophylactics. A green plastic-wrapped, mint flavored condom got put between page 56 and 57, and I drifted off to unsettling Murakami inspired dreams.
The next morning, after turning the alarm off every seven minutes for an hour and twelve minutes, I awoke and began my morning ritual. As I was leaving, I realized that I didn't have my bus book. Ah yes, I thought, It became my before bed book last night. So I nabbed the book and placed it in my nap sack.
The new Fabriclive was bangin' in my ears as I got on the bus. The cute guys that read were on the bus. One was reading The Trial and one was reading Kafka was the Rage. I sat on one of the sideways facing seats in the accordion section of the bus. I would attract both of their attention, I convinced myself, with my equally cereberal yet more contemporary literary selection. I reached into my bag and flung open the book (forgetting what my bookmark was). The mint flavored condom spun across the floor. I grabbed for it, but it was too late. Nearly half of the bus saw my secret--even the two boys.
So, instead of occasionally looking up from my book to make fleeting eye contact, I spent the bus ride never once looking up and barely re-reading the same paragraphs over and over.