scarlettina | Book Love

I wrote this at the request of a friend....

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For some people, bookstores are all about reading. For me, they're about
so much more. They have a tactile element that I never overlook. When I
see a book that looks interesting, I can't help but touch it--just gently.
The books in the store aren't mine after all--but they might be.

I run a fingertip over the embossing on a cover, following each ridge and
bulge, enjoying the contrast between the flat, silken texture of matte
card and the rise of each letter. I taste the title on my lips: how do the
words feel in my mouth as I say them? Are they lush? Do they fill me with
a desire to go on?

I lift the book from its place on the shelf. It's an assertive move, but
passing my hands over the title was already an assumption of intimacy. I
do it again, this time flat-handedly stroking the cover, front then back,
so I can pass my gaze over the blurb and absorb the book's secrets.

It's only then, after I've explored the book's exterior, that I insert one
finger between the pages and push it in. I separate the leaves carefully,
push them away from each other to reveal their private selves, a hint of
what may come should I take the book home. I stroke the center where page
meets page in the book's tight gutter to flatten the reading surface--but
I am gentle so as not to break the spine. Then I bring my face close to
read, to illicitly sample the prose. The book is not mine and so it is a
kind of theft, sweetly stolen text from between pages previously hidden
from the light.

I can smell adhesive and ink this close to the book. Fresh-cut paper. I
breath in the scent like a bride breathes in the perfume of her bouquet.
New book: a scent of life if there ever was one.

I am bumped from behind, shaken from my liaison with a new love by a
stranger passing by. I close the book, clutch it to my breast. It will
come home with me, and together we will read and be read tonight, in the
darkness and warmth of my bed where no one can disturb us.