My favorite date spot for us is a bookstore. We've found several shops with cafes in our area, so we go in and browse, I always find some corny Fantasy novel, you go for more Sci-fi, sometimes books on meditation or even Buddhism. I love seeing your random mash-up of tastes, even knowing that half of your quirks have to do with parts of her you can't get yourself to leave behind. I can handle that. When you are close to someone it makes sense for their mannerisms and traits to rub off... And I'm fully aware of how much you love her.
.
.
.
I had finished Station Eleven in a day and a half, then proceeded to devour three more of your favorite books, mostly when I was supposed to be working. You always had more of a Sci-Fi tendency, but I still found myself getting wrapped up in the pages of a mystery that you raved about last spring, or laughing into my hand to avoid admitting to myself how arousing that trashy novel was. I finally ran out of books that you left behind in the apartment, so when I finally finished the post-production for my film, I went book shopping, hoping I would be able to remember enough titles to be able to find something.
I walked into the small shop, the bells on the door handle jingling obnoxiously, and immediately remembered the date we spent here. There was a book you had deliberated over but insisted on leaving behind, I always intended to come back and get it for you, but we both kept so busy I had forgotten or was constantly pushing it to the back burner. I nod a hello to my friend behind the counter, leaving him to finish helping a customer, and I wander the shop for a bit. I can't quite recall the title of that book, but I think I'll know the spine when I see it, assuming Reggie hasn't reorganized the shop again. I know we were on this aisle; I pace up and down, scrutinizing every spine, glancing at a few covers, none of them look quite right.
'That one.'
"No, that's not it." I'm pretty sure that one is thicker than the one you looked at that day, and it wasn't even the right genre. I try to move along,
'Trust me. That one.'
I stop, pull the book from the shelf, 'Citadel'. I flip it over and read the description, WWII France, mystery, adventure. I seem to remember you reading that one early on, mainly because I was the one to comfort you afterward. I flip through the pages, causing a slip of paper to flutter to the floor; picking it up, I immediately recognize your handwriting and my heart aches as I read,
"A beautiful story. Yes, long-winded, but beautiful. The mystery of the codex being told along two different timelines, watching men and women from both sides fight over it and the powers it is said to possess; but even more importantly, the romance. The circumstances of lovers' meeting, their paths crossing and re-crossing until they can finally find a way to be together. A story of love in wartime, seemingly doomed from the start. With so much death, how can life hold beauty again? How can love be thought of in such a dark era? I assure you that in such a time, it is even more crucial. When the darkness gets deeper, or a hard time seems endless, love is the thing that keeps us sane, makes us fight, brings us together, and proves that we are alive."
I stand there staring at the slip of paper, reading your note over and over, hearing it in your voice. I don't even realize I'm crying until someone taps me on the shoulder,
"Excuse me... are you alright?" I take the offered tissue and wipe my eyes, "Evans?" My head whips around at the tone, I was so used to you calling me that, especially when you were getting sassy with me. But it's her, the girl from the crew, "You okay?"
"Yeah, yeah. I'm fine..."
"Y/N."
"That's it, sorry. But yeah, I'm fine."
"You sure? Because it looks like that book is either really good or really bad."
"Ah, it's not the book... but don't worry about it, I'm fine, really. How have you been?"
"I'm good, been keeping busy with writing, right now I'm looking for a gift for a bookworm friend of mine. The hardest part is finding something she hasn't read yet," she rolls her eyes playfully, "and I happen to know that 'fine' actually means you aren't fine, you just don't want to burden anyone with TMI." You smirk at me knowingly,
'Wow, what a line.' I chuckle, still sniffing a little, partly laughing at the jealousy in your tone, partly at her calling me out the way she did.
"Could I buy you a drink? Coffee? Or maybe make it Irish? You can lay out all the TMI you need to." I should. But I shouldn't. Should I?
'Yes, you should, dummy.' I still feel weird about it, but you want me to go...
"Uh... Sure. Yeah, that would be good."
