Book Lovers

Sometimes, I write to Charlie, the first act is the fun part, and then everything gets too complicated.Stephens, he replies, for us, it’s all the fun part.

“How do I look?” I say.“Like a very hot woman,” he says, “in a very unimpressive shirt.”“All I heard was hot.”

“Do you want to dance, Stephens?”“Do you?” I ask, surprised.“No,” he says, “but I want to touch you, and it’s a good cover.”

That’s life. You’re always making decisions, taking paths that lead you away from the rest before you can see where they end. Maybe that’s why we as a species love stories so much. All those chances for do-overs, opportunities to live the lives we’ll never have.

“I love you, Nora,” he says when we pull apart a few inches to breathe. “I think I love everything about you.”

“Sometimes I wear very impractical shoes,” I add.“Nothing impractical about looking hot,” he says.“And what about my bloodlust?”His eyes go heavy as he smiles. “That,” he says, “might be my favorite thing. Be my shark, Stephens.”“Already was,” I say. “Always have been.”

“I love you,” he says again.“I love you too.” I don’t have to force it past a knot or through the vise of a tight throat. It’s simply the truth, and it breathes out of me, a wisp of smoke, a sigh, another floating blossom on a current carrying billions of them.“I know,” he says. “I can read you like a book.”