Can we please get a book store?
Seriously. I can go and see Rembrandts and Picassos.
I can ride a roller coaster.
I can buy a Coach bag (well, I can’t, but I could if, you know, if I *could*)
I can get sushi or Thai food.
But can I walk into a bookstore and look around?
No, the closest I can get is the book and magazine aisle at the grocery store with the latest romance and thrillers along with an exhaustive selection of paperback, newsprint astrology books. Or I can brave the mall and duck into Target and try and fight my way past the goons hanging out in the electronics section to get to the books where it seems to be nothing but books about pop stars, “co-authored” by the dazed looking, pouty lipped, cleavage baring teen idols.
I just want to walk into a bookstore and get lost. Sit down in the an aisle with a heap of books beside me, leafing through the pages, waiting for something to jump out at me. At the bookstore the books almost pick you. Colors leap out at you like wet noses at the pound. The texture of a cover taunts you until you run your fingertips across it and realize that you must have it.
…in a real bookstore they are all equals. You don’t mind carrying three “trashy” books, 2 classics, and a non-fiction that you probably won’t ever read, but you feel righteous picking out and paying for all the same.
When Sean and I go to Saratoga we split up and scatter to opposite sides of the store. We always meet up in music, where he inevitably has me listen to bits of cds he has picked out. He wants me to want them as much as he does. I wish I was as passionate about music as he is. I enjoy it. And I am always grateful when he makes sure we have music playing for home improvement projects or when he has put together a special selection for a get together, or for my belly. But what I love the most is the excitement in his eyes at the store. I am walking on air from being around so many books, the anticipation of completely disappearing into a story, into the life of new friends within the pages of the books I clutch to my chest, and as I look at Sean holding the headphones out to me, his arms laden with books and cds, I can taste how perfect life is. He beams at the look of delight on my face.
We don’t go often, but these trips to the book store allow us escape and indulgence. It means we have free time ahead of us, or at least had the free time to get down to the bookstore. Sean knows how much I love to read and I understand how much he loves music. At home we’ll read to each other and share the music. We’ll make new memories working ang playing with Briar as the new music plays, we’ll savor chapters here and there before bed. We’ll laugh.
Sean says that I have an amazing knack for waiting until he is about 20 pages from the end of a book and then suddenly wanting his attention. I’ll have finished my book, or decided to go to sleep, but I’ll rest my head on his shoulder and be so loudly quiet that he can’t concentrate.
“It’s amazing! 357 pages and nothing. You haven’t tried to talk to me, haven’t budged me or sniffled. Now, a mere 20 pages from this book’s end and you are relentless!”
“What? What am I doing? I was just cuddling.”
“Sure. Right. HAH. Cuddling.” He’ll set the book down.
“No, no. Keep reading. I’m sorry.”
Long look. He goes back to reading.
Pause. And I swear to you, I cannot help myself, my chin is back on his shoulder. Waiting.
“I’m helping it last longer.” I try to say without snorting.
He’s a good sport. He laughs with me. Sometimes he puts the book away, other times he keeps reading.
I got off track, but my point was, we have to go to Saratoga to get to a bookstore. I hate that. I wish we had a bookstore here.
Ya hear that Northshire?
Well, I’m off to either skim Good Night Moon for the 11 billionth time or to page through Pottery Barn Kids…