Paperback by Quentin Norris

She sent the book back to him on a Wednesday. She told him that, but the book didn’t arrive until Monday, two weeks later. He hadn’t even bothered to get dressed when he got the slip under his door saying there was a package waiting for him in the leasing office. He just headed out the door in his night robe and pajamas. While walking back to his apartment after picking up the package from the office, he passed a couple walking down the sidewalk, the woman’s arm over the man’s shoulder, and his arm around her waist. They were neighbors of his. Although he’d never exchanged words with them, he always hated how happy they looked and scoffed cynically under his breath. The couple stopped and stared at him in a mixture of confusion and annoyance, wondering why this stranger in a robe had the gall to judge them. Embarrassed, he turned away and scampered down the sidewalk.

Back in his apartment, he held the package in his hands. He became uncomfortably aware that his hands were sweating enough to fill a small backyard pool. He flipped the yellow package over in his hands and saw the grey stains his palms had left over the piece of paper taped over the box that had his address scrawled on it in her messy handwriting. There was no return address.

He ripped open the package and the book slid out and fell to the floor with a dull thunk. He checked inside the package to see if there was anything else, but there was nothing, not even a note. Silence hung over the room as he stared at the book on the floor for what felt like an hour but was really more like five minutes. He finally crouched down and picked up the book, turning it over in his hands, loving the way it felt in his grasp.

The paperback was a little larger than his hand and fit nicely in his two palms, like a puzzle piece slipping into the right spot. The book had changed since the day he had let her borrow it. When he gave it to her, it was in pristine, mint condition, hardly looking like it had been taken off the shelves, even though he’d owned it for years. He had read this book, his favorite, countless times, but he was always painfully careful with it, careful never to fold the pages or bend the spine back too far.

The corners were frayed now. There was a deep crease down the middle of the spine. A number of pages had been dog-eared. There were some pages that had smatterings of paint along the edges. The front cover of the book no longer laid flat. Instead, it curled upward like a sloping mountain range. He could see her clearly in his head, holding the book open in one hand, painting in the other, occasionally flipping the page and leaving a smear of royal blue.

At first, he was furious. He recalled the conversation he’d had with her the night he let her borrow the book. “It means a lot to me. I’d rather not give it up. I’ve had so many bad experiences loaning out books. They either come back with coffee stains all over them or they don’t come back at all.” He pouted like a stubborn child.

She stared at him with fiercely green eyes for a long, silent stretch of time. Occasionally a sliver of red hair would fall across her eyes and she’d have to push it back behind her ear. Finally, she reached out and put her hand on top of his. “I solemnly swear no harm will come to your book,” she promised him. “In fact, if it makes you feel better, I’ll even swear on a Bible.” He didn’t go to the lengths of making her swear on a Bible, but he’d be lying if he said he hadn’t briefly considered taking her up on that proposition. In the end, he let her take the book with her. Two years later, their relationship had fallen apart and she had moved out of state. The book had not been returned.

Now he was close to shaking, his eyes misting up as he held the battered book. He became aware of a strange scent. Bringing the pages close to his face, he realized it was her signature smell of patchouli. The hairs on the back of his neck stood up. He could see her clearly, standing in the room with him, giving him that slight half smile she always did. A flood of memories poured into his brain and he noticed he wasn’t quite so angry anymore as a revelation dawned on him. She had left her mark among the pages and now she could haunt the book like a ghost. He felt a strange, comforting feeling come over him. This book had not been mistreated; it had been loved.

That night he fell asleep with the book lying on the pillow next to him. When he closed his eyes, he could see every night they slept together in the same bed, sometimes with her arms wrapped around his midriff, other times his arms were wrapped around her. The memories lulled him to sleep. When he woke, he turned over and placed his hand on the paperback and thought that he could feel the slightest murmur of a heartbeat.

# # #

Quentin Norris is a fiction writer who specializes in fantasy and magical realist stories. He studied screenwriting and film direction at the UNCSA School of Filmmaking in 2012. He has been included in publications such as Scrutiny Journal, and Breath & Shadow. He currently resides in Austin, TX with his brother, a cat, and a dog. Read more here.

Photo: Lilly Rum

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