She told me she preferred long books, with fully developed characters. She wanted a story well told—not rushed, not condensed.
Later, I realised she spoke in much the same way. One thought would lead to another, then somewhere else again. She seemed less interested in making a neat sentence than in following it wherever it led. She did not speak to be heard.
She spoke to think, and I never minded following.
I liked watching her get animated over the most mundane parts of life: a strange interaction with her boss, a line from a book, something her dog had done that morning. I liked listening to her gasp while she laughed at my jokes.
When she smiles, the freckles on her cheeks rearrange like constellations. It is so beautiful that I cannot help smiling with her.
She has no idea how easily she has me.
She will never know that I have started looking at books and wondering what she might enjoy before I consider what I want for myself.
Last week, I found a book I thought she would like. I picked it up, read the first page, then carried it around the shop for twenty minutes. At the counter, I put it back.
I told myself it was because I did not know whether she had already read it.
This was not the truth.
The truth was that I did not know what it would mean for her to hold something I had chosen with her in mind.
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