I still remember all the fun my wife and I had with another couple, Jack and Jill, that night at our apartment six months or so ago. But I wish I didn't. The memories only make what's happened since all the more painful.

If only . . . if only — gosh, it's hurting me to write this — I hadn't offered to lend Jack that book.

The night, you see, had been winding down. I had just put the cats in the dishwasher, and Jill's body language was hinting that she was tired of me and my wife and wanted to get going.

Bringing the evening to an official conclusion, I said, "Well, we should do this again. Hey, Jack, you want to borrow that book I was telling you about?"

Jack said he wanted to. He seemed excited — "seemed" being the operative word (and "he" and "excited" being the inoperative ones).

I was pleased, too. Jack would love the book, I knew. Moreover, he would forever associate it with me; it'd be just like I had co-written the book, without having to do any of the work or possess any of the writer's talent.

Or, at the very least, I'd have some kind of ownership over the book in Jack's eyes - not just of the physical copy of the book, of course, but a deeper ownership. Kind of like Moses with the Israelites and the Ten Commandments.

Of course, the Israelites eventually got around to paying attention to the Ten Commandments. This weekend, though, Jill had lunch with my wife. And she brought back the book. Unread.

I guess I was expecting this. Every time I'd seen Jack these past few months, he'd insincerely mention how he "was going to get to" the book. Still, though, while he had had the book in his possession, I had had hope. But now, dammit, from the information I could glean, the jerk didn't even give the first chapter a try.

Yeah, I am angry, and, yeah, I know this anger will eventually pass. But will my friendship with Jack ever be the same? Will there even be a friendship from here on out? That, I honestly can't say. Jack's a good guy, has a good sense of humor, and has saved my life seven times. But this book thing . . .

He says he's been busy. Hey, pal, we're all busy. And does he realize how much busier I've been because of the extra time it takes me every time I rearrange my bookshelves to factor in that I have one book lent out?

The worst of it is, I spend half the time blaming myself. The thoughts race furiously through my brain: Maybe he didn't want to borrow the book in the first place but I had insisted and he didn't want to make me feel bad. Maybe I'd given him a book with a photo of an author who looks just like a close, recently murdered relative. Maybe, even more insensitively, I haven't realized that Jack doesn't know how to read.

Nope, at the end of the day, I don't buy any of those. It is not my fault. And, heck, maybe it's not really Jack's fault, either. We've all got problems, and his just happens to be not reading great books lent by friends.

I just have to move on, work up the nerve to eventually lend out this book again or another one to someone else and realize that, for as horrible as this experience was for me, I'm very lucky - libraries must have to go through this kind of pain every day.

(Mark Bazer can be reached at mebazer@yahoo.com.)

(c) 2004 mark bazer, Distributed by Tribune Media Services, Inc.