Sketch: Bookshop
I sat on a cushion gazing warmly around the bookshop I had come to know and love. Tucked away from the surrounding hullabaloo in the traffic of a crowded city, I could feel the warmth of home in the cozy light, bookshelves, books, in the smell of the incense slowly burning, and the radiant warmth of the woman I love.
We sat there in silent revelry surrounded by books waiting patiently to be read. I felt consumed by the warmth of it all — it felt like the home I’ve always wanted: nothing else mattered.
She turns to me and shows me a recipe she would like to try, I smile and nod and wonder if I’m as radiant to her as she is to me. I wonder if she feels the calm that I feel — if she feels at home. I flip through a few pages of my own book, turn to her, and give her a kiss on the forehead.
If this was some indie movie, I thought, the credits roll here. I didn’t want the story to end, it simply felt fitting. Here was I, the grandest I’ve ever felt: at home and madly in love.
The bookstore began to close up and the people trickled out of it and back into the hustle and bustle of city life. We followed suit. I held her hand and the same warmth rushed through me.
I suppose I’ve always known, somehow.
She is love. She is home.
