A few pages in I know it's going to be good, very good. My body sighs deep into the mattress with a gust of pleasure. The book is balanced open on one breast. My hands fluff the pillow until my head is the perfect distance from the page and the print comes into focus. I am so happy. In my youth, this was when I would call in sick until I had finished the book. 
Perhaps it will all fall apart. Perhaps I won't stay in
love. I doubt it. Margaret Atwood and I have a long, close reader-to-writer relationship. But it doesn't matter. This first brush of words, rush of reading is enough.
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