Library Book From Another World
#27days27stories Prompt No. 1
Sitting in the corner of the La Petit Cafe patio, I'm not sure what intoxicated me more, the lustful spring breeze jostling the hair around my shoulders or the lines of poetry holding me captive in their bittersweet soliloquy. I'd read line after line, turned page after page lost in another world blissfully unreal, and I'd failed to notice the lunch rush begin to hem me in. Not until someone bumped the corner of my table and the checkout card I used as a bookmark fluttered to the ground.
I looked up as the man who'd disturbed my poetic trance, older but distinguished by a well tailored suit and polished black shoes, bent to pick up the card and hand it back to me. His eyes flicked from the date stamped at the bottom of the list to me, and he smiled.
“A little overdue, I see.”
“Just a little.” I forced a smile in return and reclaimed my bookmark, tapping it against the open page. “But worth it.”
Nodding, he turned away and disappeared into the steady stream of suits and skirts passing by on the brick sidewalk. Had he noticed the year? I'd borrowed the book exactly three years and two days before, from a library I'd never return to in a world I'd never traverse again. I couldn't. Not because I'd forgotten where to find the portal or because anything or anyone unsavory waited on the other side. I couldn't bring myself to revisit what I knew I'd never get back.
Once in a while, on days like today, I took the time to remember what I'd lost, but it was always a passing mirage. The memory of my first home—my only home. The only place I'd ever stayed long enough to send postage with a return address or keep a houseplant or build a bookshelf or faithfully borrow and return a library book. Or find a kindred spirit.
It didn't last.
I can't stay in one place for long. I know that now because I learned the hard way. My only belongings fit in two suitcases, one for books and one for everything else. Despite only keeping what I can carry, I've never had the heart to trade this book for one of more value. Maybe because the poetry wraps its fingers around my neck and doesn't let go ...
Or because I can't shake the memory of him.