By: Sarah (prepare to sit in some sap while reading this)
All I really want is a man who will read with me. Who will sit pretzel-style in the grass and occasionally let me read him a quote from my book or push my bangs out of my face after I’ve already blown them away countless times. Who will be happy to just sit. And be silent.
Our books don’t have to be the same book. In fact, I would prefer them to be different. That way I can wonder if what he’s reading reminds him of me and wonder if he’s wondering what I’m wondering.
I don’t want to compare us to characters in the books, though. I don’t want to be the Daisy to his Gatsby or the Chenault to his Kemp. I want to be our own characters in our own novel. Whether it is a comedy or a drama or a tragedy, at least we’ll be writing it.
I hope that each book we read has that one sentence that stays with us forever. The one that we want to get tattooed on our ribcage or the one that litters the pages of our notebooks while doodling during work. The sentence so strikingly comparable to our thoughts that it feels like the author plagiarized our brains.
And each word in the sentence is so perfectly crafted and intricately chosen, unlike my scattered grocery list of a mind or the words that come out of my mouth when I try to say anything. So I won’t say anything. I’ll sit. And read. With him.
He’ll rent books from the library, while I’ll prefer to buy my own. He’ll argue that there’s just something special about the sound the clear liner of a library book makes. I’ll boast about how I can highlight and underline and footnote my books. He’ll shake his head and tell me I’m ruining the sanctity of the words.
I want to argue about books with him. Which book is better and why? Is there such a thing as a good sci-fi book? Why are you reading On the Road again? Why aren’t you reading Harry Potter again?
We will share and trade books, always making sure to include a bookmark of a memory. Concert tickets. Movie stubs. Multiplication cards from second grade that just happen to be lying around, mocking me for getting 2 x 4 wrong. Pieces from things we did when we weren’t reading.
Our books will stretch to the ceiling and we’ll build a ladder to reach the highest ones; the ones that need to be dusted off. We’ll have a library filled with our books. We’ll have a library filled with our love.