It was in one of those national chain bookstore-cum-coffee houses that I found myself. Over by the magazine section, curled up in a chair was a young woman, dressed as for work with nylons, grey skirt, tasteful blouse, make-up, etc. The idea behind these stores is to make you feel at home, so you stay and drink overpriced bad coffee and buy the latest publications. She felt at home there to be sure—she was sound asleep! She probably had had a tough day behind the counter, or a long night the evening before, but she looked positively angelic, with the still-open book cradled in her hands. Perhaps she was dreaming; her book had entered into her slumbering state - a romance novel or some exotic adventure? I carefully sidled over to catch the title of what must be a powerful work of literature.
The title? My Life by Bill Clinton.
Or maybe it was just boring.