“Who says he’s seeing this place the way we’re seeing it? Humans see what they want to see.”
Not me though. I see things in neat black-and-white rows.
Gone are the days when bibliophiles settled with us in tidy nooks to latibulate. The black ink on my once pristine paper has now mottled, my tome lays forgotten and irresolute. I almost miss the degenerates who once dog-eared my edges and marked my pages. I know, I have to act my position, but I have needs that cannot be denied. I long to be held, to gently slide down to the bosom of a sleepy reader by a dim table lamp, as sleep claims their senses and rain pitter-patters their windowpanes. But as the days pass by in the college library, so dim my hopes.
Her brown eyes found me through the dust bunnies filtering out the windowpane and picked me up. She was an old friend, who had once taken me home. I was her first, who enthralled her, as we snuggled together all night in her blanket, with a torch for company. She had read and reread me, fascinated by my story.
Today, she smiled and placed a lilac envelope snugly along my cracking spine. The next thing I knew, I was out in the sun, held tight, as she ambled into a cavern-like space.
I fluttered on a narrow table between them both trying to read the mood. He carelessly spilled coffee in my vicinity. She cringed and pulled me close to her, guiltily stroking my edges. If I could, I would tell her. I did not approve.
He laughed a bit too hard at something she said. Emboldened she raised me to him like an offering. Whatever our souls are made out of, his and mine are the same – She recited my most poignant lines and I was touched and proud.
Her cohort gave us a strange look, hesitantly took out the lilac envelope, and read the matter inside. Going red in his face, he muttered something about not being ready to commit, and bolted out of the cafeteria.
A rosy smell continued to emanate from me as I felt a single tear falling gently along my leatherette. For once, the moisture didn’t bother me. The lilac love letter written in a neat slanting cursive lay drenched in the spilled coffee as she got up and slowly carried me out. My bibliosmia comforted her (I like to think) as she held me to her face and breathed in deeply.
She leaned over her armchair, me by her side, a cup of chamomile in one hand and his photo in another. After what seemed to be an eternity, she tore off his photo and drank up the scalding tea. She took me to her bed. My spine trembled as she caressed my foreword. I sighed.
I’m coming back to his side, to put it right
I’m coming home to wuthering
Pic : Unsplash