The Book

In her mind it was the perfect morning. With a steaming hot coffee in one hand and a book in the other, she sits in her favourite chair and stares out at the rain that pours down from above. She sips from her mug and ponders how long she can enjoy the moment before the responsibilities of real life come rushing in.

No time to dwell on that right now, she decides, and sets herself up to read for as long as she can. She places her drink on the table beside her and snuggles underneath the blanket that lives on her chair. The book she is reading is more than halfway done and is, in her opinion, getting more interesting with every page.

She removes her bookmark and begins to read. Instantly she is transported by the story within, daring to look up only when a heavy truck comes barreling down the street, its clunky tires causing large puddles to splash all over her lawn. A bird swoops sharply down across her view, startling her for an instant and causing her to jump. She shakes her head and takes a deep breath; with nowhere to be, she appreciates that this moment belongs to her alone.

She reads in the serenity of silence until her legs become cramped and the steam from her coffee disappears into the dregs of a cold, caffeinated sludge at the bottom of her mug. Frowning, she decides it’s probably time to take a break, eager to return once she has recharged.

Outside the rain begins to beat even harder. She heads to the bathroom and then to the kitchen to get more coffee. The pot is warm, but not warm enough, and she opts to use the microwave to heat a second cup. This will be fine, she decides, although she knows that the first steaming hot cup of the day is always the best.

The microwave beeps. She removes the mug and returns it to the coffee table. Quickly she grabs her book and opens it back to the place she left off. She reads voraciously. Fifty pages followed by another ten and then just another ten more. She pushes through to the end of the next chapter before heaving a sigh and setting the book down with a slight thud.

Feeling a sense of accomplishment, she stands and stretches her arms into the air. Her mind wanders as she drifts into the kitchen and opens the fridge. Genuine curiosity about other peoples’ thoughts on the story niggle at her brain and she laughs internally at the thought of suggesting it for her next book club pick.

Against her will, her eyes move to the laptop sitting on her dining room table. Suddenly and without thought she is there, typing the name of the book into the search engine on her screen. She scans a list of reputable websites and chooses the one with the most reviews. The format is easy to navigate and soon she is sifting through dozens of reader responses, most of which contain insightful feedback even though the book has only recently been published.

A few of the words make her cringe, but most are quite positive. She shuts the laptop abruptly, not wanting to let the opinions of other people influence her own before she gets to the end. This story must be read as a whole, she decides. Her quest for food forgotten, the book is swiftly in her hand and she begins to read once more. The cool breeze from her open window is suddenly a nuisance, and she shuts it. The room is silent and still. The rain is ever present but is now muted to the sound of a dull, continuous drum beat above her head. Her mind is focused and determined. She reads, page after page, word after word until the story is a thing come alive within her, a sudden, strange desperation to know what happens at the end forcing her to soldier on.

Time passes. Sunlight is filtering through her window when she looks up, and she realizes that the storm is over. A sense of disappointment washes over her, a knowing feeling of loss as she acknowledges the permission the rain had given her to hunker down inside with her book.

The book. She glances at the page number and sees that she is nearly at the end. Her body is screaming at her to move and her stomach growls in protest at the thought of sitting empty for a moment longer. Slowly, she places her bookmark inside and leaves it be.

Lunch is made and eaten. She showers and dresses, puts on a bit of make up and then does the dishes. The house is clean but there are errands to run. As she rummages through her closet for the appropriate post-rain footwear, the book sits, not quite forgotten in her living room. The story is paused, real life an ever-pressing irritation that won’t stop buzzing, even for a day.

The house is frozen and quiet after she is gone. It remains this way for hours, and upon her return seems to drop its shoulders and breathe once more. Evening approaches and a warm breeze filters in through the screen of her back door. She picks up the book, disappointed that her time with it is almost over. This is a typical feeling for her as she approaches the end. The logical part of her brain tells her that it’s not real and that she can revisit the characters any time she wants. But she knows that nothing can ever be experienced in the same way as the very first time you do it.

She sits outside and returns to the place she’s marked, savouring the last few pages in the dying light of day. Her mind is relaxed. This is right. She takes it in and when she is done, she slowly closes the book and holds it gingerly in her lap.

Like many of the stories she has read over the course of her life, she is left with a familiar feeling of bittersweet happiness at its completion. Only a small number have left strong, lasting impressions on her, and she can think of their names almost immediately. She wonders if this book will create that feeling for someone else and hopes that it will. The author, she knows, has put her entirety into making it something to be remembered.

It is a remarkable feeling, she reflects, to read a finished, fully bound book written by your own hand. A wry smile crosses her lips as she contemplates her musings on the idea. She grabs her book and heads inside.