she eyed novel #4 and novel #5 and wondered if they were as stupid and boring as the first three.
probably, she thought, there was a reason someone had left them behind.
succumbing to her mild curiosity, she picked up novel # 4 and opened it.
and seemed to go on like that for 675 pages.
only novel #5 was left at the table. betty could not remember if the bookshelf in the break room had held more. a novel #6, #7, etc.
she picked up novel #5. i bet i can guess, she thought, what it is.
it will be either a single letter or number repeated endlessly, or it will be completely blank.
it was completely blank.
at least, thought betty, it really is blank, and does not have a note or preface explaining that it is forcing the reader to confront the emptiness of the universe, or of their brain, etc.
i should be a conceptual artist myself, she thought.
betty decided she had had enough of the museum, and wanted to get back to her apartment in time to watch the third rock rerun which was always on at 6:30.
it was still raining outside, but not so hard as before, and she went home.