Avi Kaplan: A Collection of Short Stories

Books

You loved books.

You loved running your fingers along the spines, your skin gliding along the smooth surfaces not yet cracked by eager hands. Finding one that struck your interest, you would pull it from the shelf, testing its weight in your palms, prickling with anticipation at discovering its secrets. Dragging your fingers along the cover, you would carefully turn the book over, your eyes devouring the description printed on the back. Your fingers would flip through the pages, the fresh, clean paper smell wafting up to your nose and you'd smile. After deeming the book worthy, you'd clutch it briefly to your chest before moving on to the next shelf, your fingers, hands and eyes starting the process over.

You held a special kind of love for old books, too. The ones that were well read, their spines creased and wrinkled with love. The corners frayed and bent from so much manipulation, the pages grown soft and pliable. You would often reread books a number of times over, their words and descriptions still filling you with the same sense of wonder as they did during their first reading. The fresh smell became muted over time, instead replaced by something old, yet not unpleasant, and familiar. These were the books lovingly placed on your bookshelf, the ones that you'd still look at with a certain sort of fondness.

Sometimes you thought of him as a book.

When you'd first met him, he was shiny and new. The creases in his jacket tempting your fingers and you desperately wanted to run your hands along the pleasing curves of his shoulder blades. The weight of his hand pressed in yours sent shivers down your spine and the bubbly feeling of apprehension bloomed in your chest as he finally pressed his lips to yours.

Avi.

He was all swirling browns and greens, big and strong and you eagerly drank him in during those first few months. Your fingers, mouth and tongue learned him, reading the lines and contours of his body, mind and soul. His scent was clean and earthy and he always seemed to taste of mint.

Before he left for tour, you held him close, your fingers trailing where they could, memorizing him. You pressed your face hard into his shoulder, absorbing his scent through the thin cotton t-shirt and when he kissed you goodbye, you accepted from him his love and the sorrow of your parting.

When he came back to you, the traces of his newness began to fade and you started thinking of him as an old book. That first night back, your fingers and hands trailed along his skin, no longer learning but remembering. He felt smooth and pliant beneath you as you traced words on his skin and murmured love onto his heart.

Once the morning light came, you watched him sleep, your chest still filling with the exhilaration of waking up next to him and you can't help but brush a curl away from his face. Avi blinked sleepily at you and letting out a yawn, pulled you closer, his face nuzzled into the naked curve of your shoulder. You held him close, your fingers brushing through his hair as he slowly woke; the lazy morning sounds and the soft whisper of his breath the only things you hear.

It's then you realized just how much of a book Avi isn't.

You didn't pick him up on a whim or by his outward appearances. And you certainly didn't set him down, only to be reread a few times in your life, carefully stowed away on a shelf. He wasn't something pre-written, pre-meditated that could fit snuggly between two covers. His entire being seemed to swirl around you, all encompassing, nestling down into the very fiber of your body, and igniting you from within.

Each new day was a chapter, a turn in the story you were both writing, a story with no conceivable end in sight.