I open a new book, and I immediately begin to fan through all the pages and listen to them snap away from each other. I watch the words go by in a blur like those movies I used to make on a pad of paper when I was a child. I’d hold the end of it with my thumb, the images moving as one, revealing an entire story one page at a time.
I open it in half, and then in thirds, and then in fifths, bending it open and stretching its rigid spine until it loosens up. I run my hand down the middle, both sides of the book on the palm of one hand. I run it over and over on the pages at each fraction until it is soft, until it doesn’t take so much to open it, and my hand burns a bit from the friction on my skin.
I force it to close after forcing it open, and I push it so that it will lie flat again-like it hasn’t felt the air on its pages now, like those pages haven’t been changed by my touch. It will never lie flat again. I hug it tightly to my chest to feel the bulk of it, the bulk that’s permanent from being made un-new.
I realize I do the same with people.
Short Stop: A Minute-Long Essay is a weekly publication on my website. Follow me on Facebook / Twitter / Instagram
Originally published at https://lchillwriter.com on August 28, 2019.
