An Argument Against Having a Favorite Book
“I don’t bite, you know.”
Even though she said it with one of the most sincere smiles I’ve ever seen, something tells me she definitively does. Probably in the good way. Thank you, intrusive thoughts.
Still. A woman that happy just can’t be trusted.
I learned how to speak when I was what…two? Forty years later and it seems I’ve forgotten. Her brow ruffles at me. “So…can I sit here?”
I look around the bookstore café, there’s no other seat available. I love my wife is all I can think, as if trying to convince myself marital bliss means months at a time of abstinence and a collectibles shelf full of petty resentments. “Sure thing, I was just leaving.”
“Ah, too bad,” I want her to say. She doesn’t. But she looks like she might be thinking it. “Thank you,” she says, sits down, and starts reading my favorite book. Fuck.
The thought of walking away incites an unexpected reaction. My insides begin to crumble slowly, as if each organ that holds me together is its own collapsing structure impacted by the earthquake of this moment. I will either walk away, not having to worry about who will get the dog, but knowing this internal feeling of turmoil is now my truth, or…I will stay, knowing she will be both the demolition and rebuilding of my life from here on out.
I adjust my seat and continue to type on my laptop as she reads, but it’s nonsense at this point. I feel her eyes on mine and look up to meet them.
“I’m glad you stayed,” she says, a deep knowing emanating from her entire being.
