The book of love

It was one of those mornings. the kind Jenna liked. One of those rare mornings when she would wake up and immediately rush to the deep, wide mahogany book case. The one where she kept those rare volumes she had collected over the years at tiny flea markets and antique book stores. Each worth much more than what she had paid. Each book was kept horizontally. So that this eager reader would never have to crane her neck to read the name. Books were stacked horizontally according to the period they were from. There was a book representing almost every chapter of history. A reluctant novel or a brazen account. A shy rendition or a forceful chapter. It was all there. Arranged neatly, horizontally on a book shelf that seemed to extend it outstretched hands, clamouring for more.

This morning she did not have to search around. Her hand reached out straight to that book. The Book she knew she would take to her couch and curl up with, for the next hour. The book that would set the tone for the day. Il Postino, Pablo Neruda.

Last night had been special. Special because it was completely unexpected. She had succumbed to her mother`s constant nagging and her friends untiring matchmaking efforts and finally gone out with a guy, her best friend had suggested. She had claimed Jack would be perfect for her. Exactly what was Jenna was looking for in a man? A companion, a relationship, a husband? But Jenna knew the man for her was not out there. He was in those countless books she collected. She knew no one could match upto her expectations. Her Darcy, her Heathcliff her Pablo Neruda. Nope, no one could even come close. So she had stopped trying, She was satisfied with her two dimensional men in her books, in her memory. Slowly she had become a recluse. She had had enough of pointless, meaningless dates and night after night she had curled up with a book in her warm, striped couch. Reading, thirsting for the men she read about.

But Saturday was different. She had read about first encounters in countless books but this was none like them. They did not go to a fancy restaurant, they did not order wine, they did not drive to the date in a fancy car and they did not pause awkwardly after every sentence. It was like he had read every book she had read. It was like they were reading the same page of the same book together, at the same time.

He had none of that boyish charm everyone talks about and he was not drop dead handsome, but he was different. Good different. Strangely worldly and wise but bookish and romantic at the same time. They had talked for hours about their favourite books and the feelings that they had everytime they read it. They quoted lines from their favourite poems and each had finished lines for the other. It surpassed any evening Jenna had ever dreamed about. This was perfect.

They kept meeting. Often in bookstores where they looked at books together, recommending to one another, gifting each other and reading over each others shoulder. They counted countless cups of coffee and measured their evenings with coffee spoons and Jenna realised, for the first time, she was not tired of a man. He was like her favourote book. She could keep reading it, but everytime she did, something new came up. It left her with a new feeling, a new thought, a certain thrill, a longing to read again.

And so they went through the whole gamut. From the Romantics to the Realists. The got married, much to everyone's surprise. It happened quickly.

Her books were added to his books. The books diluted. Sometimes cloned. Both of them had similar tastes which were sometimes so different. Books were no longer arranged by period instead they were arranged by size, practicality and what was worse they were now arranged vertically. The name of each book had to be read with a slight tilt of the head. That was the way he liked it. He said it brought back to him the familiarity of his favourite bookstores. Those chains, those multi nationals that traded books from one country to another. Paperbacks, printed over and over again till the cover faded colour. But his books were all well leafed through. You could tell because the light cover could hardly hold the pages, thick now with fingerprint and thought. Her books with their rich, deep coloured leather covers stood out like sore thumbs, from in between his books.

Day after day she waited to wake up with that familiar feeling. To feel that urge to run from their bed to the bookcase. To grab the book that had come in her dreams. To reach out and hold that familiar feeling, to leaf through the pages and finally see what she had wanted to see first thing in the morning. To feel that comfort, waiting for it to set the tone of her day. To go through the whole day with just that thought, those words. But strangely she now rarely felt the urge. It had now been reduced to her morning coffee and a customary glance at her bookshelf and she was out the door.

A part of her had died.

And then she knew. It was so simple. She knew exactly what she had to do. So she woke up one morning and wrote him a note. Then she gathered her books and stacked them in a box and silently closed the door behind her.

As soon as she entered her familiar abode she could her feel her self coming together again. Romance was a thought best only when read about. She had been with a man just like her. That was not the plan. Would Elizabeth Bennet have fallen in love with someone just like her? No. Darcy was her exact opposite. Only Healthcliff could have tamed Catherine Earnshaw. And only Ophelia could have endured Hamlet. And that was that.

The morning after she had left to go back home, he found her curled up in her favourite armchair. A book on her lap. Eyes closed. Her finger on a page, forcing the book to remain open. For the story to continue. He took the deep leather bound book to see what she was reading. What had put that smile on her face. Tonight I can write the saddest lines. Pablo Neruda, Il Postino.