Folds

There's this corner on a page of my book that's bent and creased so badly it doesn't look like it fits in with the rest of it. The book is in perfect condition for the most part, it's a glossy hardcover. Each page as crisp and clean as it was when it was first printed. You know the one I'm talking about.

I spilled coffee on myself today, while I was reading the book. I picked it up after a long time, and I just sat in my chair with it on my lap and I turned the page and there it was, the corner— our corner. It just reminded me of too many things too fast, and I spilled my drink all over me. I managed to keep it from getting on the book though, you'll be glad to know. 

You don't know what I'm on about, do you? You're thinking what corner, and when did I start drinking coffee? I don't really know. I just started ordering cups of coffee when I realised I'd be sitting by myself again. Drinking it gave me something to do, something to occupy myself with. It's hard to feel lonely when you're focusing your energy on holding a hot cup without burning yourself. It just became a habit from there, I guess.

I was reading my book in the cafeteria that day, when you came and sat beside me. I tried to feel offended. You just naturally assumed I was alone, like I wasn't saving the seat for someone else. I tried to look angry but then I saw you looking at me with expectation and excitement, like you needed me. You pointed to my book and we started talking and you didn't leave until we were the last two people there, surrounded by the smell of deep-fried oil and stale dust. You asked for my name only as you were leaving, and I realised that we didn't really know each other. I couldn't wait to change that.

I folded down a corner of my book after you left. I'd never done anything quite so reckless before, and I regretted it for half a second after I'd done it. But then I looked at the corner and I remembered the conversation that had just happened, that I had somehow managed to capture in this tiny fold in my book and I smoothed down the fold with my thumb and forefinger.

Each conversation after that day managed to find its way into that little corner of my book, weighing it down and making it heavier with each pause under the shade of a tree and each tug of my hair with your hands. I would go home and turn to my corner, lock in my memories of the day and fold it down. That corner is the safest place I've ever known.

I put it up on the shelf after that day. I didn't want to remember that last conversation. I almost believed if I ignored it, I could keep it from really happening. But it happened anyway, and I was back to sitting by myself with books that had crisp pages and neat edges and meant nothing to me. I felt hollow and empty, and I tried to replicate the warmth of your words and your presence with the coffee but it wasn't the same.

I picked up the book almost by accident today— it certainly wasn't on purpose. For a moment I was immersed in the story as it appeared before me, and I began to remember why I loved reading. Then I saw the corner and in the split second before I scalded myself with the hot coffee I realised.

I'm a writer.