by Charles Lennox

The man reads a book. Something culled from the public library. Or purchased on a whim in the world’s last remaining bookstore. Or taken off the dusty shelf where all the man’s books are kept with the promise of one day being opened and touched and read. He leans into the cushions of his favorite couch and turns the page. He reads half a sentence, pauses, completes the sentence, and then stops to ponder what’s missing. There is no sound of rain. Books, this man reasons, are to be read in the home under the cover of rain with a healthy fire to warm. And there is no chance of rain, not on this day: blinding white and clear. In the bathroom he runs the shower cold and listens to the water pelting the tile as he sinks to the floor where he lights candles scented of lavender breeze and apricot delight. He sits indian style and reads and the man’s breathing becomes subconsciously rhythmic, inhaling at the beginning of each sentence, exhaling at its end. The book tells the story of a young man born in Jerusalem who pursues his estranged wife in the hopes of renewing their lost love. Our man reads and reads. Sees his innermost self in the printed text. The hours pass, the late afternoon fading to early dusk. When his lover returns home the man calls out to her, and though he cannot hear, he knows that the momentary sound cast out of her mouth will be a sigh, the deepest sigh, the surrounding air dense with weight. Her steps thud down the hall. She opens the bathroom door and the man kisses his lover on the mouth, kisses her like the young man of Jerusalem kisses his wife on the page they are reunited, and as they kiss he listens to the rain falling, breathes in the faint scent of candle and smoke, and with both eyes open he reads a book to find out how this all will end.

 

 

Charles Lennox’s fiction has appeared or is forthcoming in Wigleaf,  Monkeybicycle, Sir!, and Right Hand Pointing. He can’t stand cilantro and once told Aimee Bender I love you. He occasionally blogs useless material.