by Miranda Rossimer
I couldn’t help it. It wasn’t my fault. The book fell right off the shelf at my feet begging me to be his. His face drew me in with the fine lines along his cover. The illustrations demanded my full attention and tugged at my heartstrings. His description enticed me, wooed me, caused me to sit holding my breath as I waited for him to give me more. I even dared to reach beneath his clothed exterior for the briefest of moments to expose his inner nature. But it was only a peek. I swear it.
We walked down the aisle together. Hand in hand, hearts beating in unison. We stood before the alter of the check out and waited with baited breath until the man behind the counter pronounced us book and owner.
We clung to each other as we crossed the threshold and were barely out the door before we pawed at each other, him groping my inner psyche, me flipping madly through his pages. People stared as we walked down the street together openly displaying our affection for one another. He gently stroked my hair, reaching deep within my mind as his hand fell against my head.
I continued to reach inside and find his manhood, exploring the deepest parts of his soul. At the park, some parents asked us to leave saying that we aught to be ashamed of ourselves for behaving so scandalously in public. We ignored them and continued to reach deep into each other stimulating areas of the mind that would make even a stripper blush. The mothers rushed away with their hands covering the eyes of their precious little darlings.
We stayed that way until the police came and made us move along. “We can’t arrest you because it isn’t exactly indecent exposure,” one officer said. “But you really should consider getting a room.” He raised an eyebrow and watched us as we walked away arm in arm.
When we got home, I took him straight to the couch where we could devour one another in private. We laughed, we cried, we spiraled deeper in love with each word. He won my heart over and over again with the turn of each sheet.
Toward the climax, I screamed out in anticipation. He drove on unceasingly to the very end, my heart pounding loudly in my chest. When we had finished, I sat in silence and gazed out the window into the night. He waited with me, quietly watching the stars in the sky. We contemplated what it meant. Our meeting. Our endless passionate romp together.
He was too good to read only once. I had to return to him again and again. Though the thrill wasn’t as intense as the first time, each time kept me engaged and left me satisfied. As the weeks progressed, our minds began to wander.
He always left me wanting more. And usually a re-reading was enough for me. I could have everything I wanted, but lately it was different. He began flirting with my best friend Cindy every time she came over. Once I even caught them with his book jacket off as she “examined” his reviews. (Like I really believed that one.)
Another time, she was so brazen as to slip her hand inside him between the sheets I had come to know so well. She nearly flipped him open, but I put a quick stop to that.
Then there was me. Book had a younger brother who had just been released from the publishing company. The enticement was almost too much for me. Any time book and I would take a walk, his younger brother would come up in casual conversation. Though we didn’t paw at each other in public like we did that first day, we still walked hand in hand to our favorite reading spots.
On one such walk, book confided in me that his younger brother knew more than he did about the continuing plot lines. He told me about how insecure he felt every time we passed the bookstore and saw his younger brother in the window.
Book was afraid I would abandon him. We sat down in a shady area of the park. Together, we laughed, we cried, we waited for the climax. But it wasn’t the same. I feared him thinking of my best friend, and he feared me thinking of his brother. The connection we once had seemed damaged somehow.
We slowly made our way back to my little apartment, our bungalow for two. Cindy was waiting. Book nearly dropped my hand when he saw her. His pages ruffled as his storyline pumped faster.
In that moment, I knew it was over. There was no changing his mind. With a sigh and a heavy heart, I released him. Cindy gladly picked him up and, just as he had with me, he began to stroke her mind as she ruffled through his pages.
Unable to contain my grief, I walked away. I wandered around for hours and found myself outside the bookstore. Book’s younger brother winked at me from the window. His come hither stare drew me inside. Within minutes we were walking out in the throws of passion, him groping my mind, me getting comfortable between his sheets.
Marinda Romesser is a short story author, novelist, and poet. She holds an MA in English from SNHU and is currently pursuing her MFA through Lindenwood University. Marinda teaches college courses at various locations in her area. She has other items published with Dali’s Love Child.