A Book: His or Hers?

And years later, he sat on the floor surfing the bed drawer. He opened it and sat, surfing it, fiddling with the things that came across his hands until a book given by her caught his eyes. It was “The Essential Rumi”; he recalled how she was so consistent on making him read the poetry written by Rumi. He opened it, the book still smelled of her, the cologne that she sprinkled herself with. It was as if someone had sprayed the cologne minutes back all over the book. He opened it, feeling the pages she must have turned in anticipation of finishing the book so that she can make him read that. He thought about how she would have underlined the lines with the highlighter that now were under his sight.
He smiled. He missed her. He really did. He felt the pages that she once held. Touching the stains of oil that she must have left while eating and reading at the same time.

He was filled with brisk sentiments, being all nostalgic about the times she compelled him to read the book she always wanted to preserve and at the end he kept it with him in a hope of reading it one day, preserving it for her. He thought that had he read the book, they would have had something to talk about in the next meeting, but since he never took that initiative, the book and those imaginary conversations laid shut then and there. He felt the loss of not being with her anymore but only one memory that he had, the book.

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