I'm cheating on Don DeLillo's "White Noise."

I feel terrible, of course -- I love it and all, but sometimes it's just too stifling, to overwhelming. I sneak away every once in a while to read something easier, to have some fun, to stop having to think all the damned time. I "accidentally" leave it at work so I have an excuse for some sack-time with, say, John Grisham or Sue Grafton -- with someone easy and cheap and uncomplicated.

They're just flings, of course. They don't mean anything to me. I only really love "White Noise."

But I've got to be careful, because I think Don is starting to suspect.