Fiction, mystery, thriller, romance, classics, non-fiction. We’ve chased each other for hours now through the mall. Sometimes I catch up to you, touch your hair from behind, grab you by the waist, sit down together at the food court, wait for you against the wall outside the restrooms. We uncap body wash bottles and smell them in stores, but never deodorants.
I am over six foot and you are not, so I have the advantage. It also means I can give you chances, because sometimes I do see you and decide to let the crowd cover you up again. And, sometimes, you appear out of nowhere to investigate my palm with your fingers. It’s different every time, like a crossword puzzle. The ending is always the same; boxes filled with letters. We end up in the bookstore.
Alleys' worth of shelves stretch to the ceiling, the floor muted for stealth, and quiet except for an orchestra living in the speakers. Our favourite place to hide, even forget each other, until you find something so amazing you cry out for me. But until then,
I live off the glimpses of your hair through a row of books. Your eyelashes. Or our hands reaching out, brushing briefly as we move in opposite directions. We make fun of the Mills & Boon covers, run our fingers over scientific illustrations. I do my homework and study your laugh, the way you tuck your hair behind your ear, help you to reach for books that are too high for you. I know your looks of indifference to books you would never even consider to touch, how your eyes change when you find a title you love, and my favourite; the transitioning look from curious to approval. That look makes me wonder how our story would fit on these shelves.
Which genre would it be? Which typeset for the pages? Would it come with visual aids? Will it find home in the New York Times, or the 3 for 1 pile? Would it even be? Because honestly, I would never write a novel about you. The characters need to be complete, the story riveting to millions. And more and more, everytime I find you, I feel like we’re just getting started. Fiction, mystery, thriller, romance, classics, non-fiction. In me, you spark them all.
We end up in the bookstore.
I am over six foot and you are not, so I have the advantage. It also means I can give you chances, because sometimes I do see you and decide to let the crowd cover you up again. And, sometimes, you appear out of nowhere to investigate my palm with your fingers. It’s different every time, like a crossword puzzle. The ending is always the same; boxes filled with letters. We end up in the bookstore.
Alleys' worth of shelves stretch to the ceiling, the floor muted for stealth, and quiet except for an orchestra living in the speakers. Our favourite place to hide, even forget each other, until you find something so amazing you cry out for me. But until then,
I live off the glimpses of your hair through a row of books. Your eyelashes. Or our hands reaching out, brushing briefly as we move in opposite directions. We make fun of the Mills & Boon covers, run our fingers over scientific illustrations. I do my homework and study your laugh, the way you tuck your hair behind your ear, help you to reach for books that are too high for you. I know your looks of indifference to books you would never even consider to touch, how your eyes change when you find a title you love, and my favourite; the transitioning look from curious to approval. That look makes me wonder how our story would fit on these shelves.
Which genre would it be? Which typeset for the pages? Would it come with visual aids? Will it find home in the New York Times, or the 3 for 1 pile? Would it even be? Because honestly, I would never write a novel about you. The characters need to be complete, the story riveting to millions. And more and more, everytime I find you, I feel like we’re just getting started. Fiction, mystery, thriller, romance, classics, non-fiction. In me, you spark them all.
We end up in the bookstore.
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