I'm sitting in Barnes and Noble, the house was an all too tempting mistress - just one more dish, only one more load of laundry - and so I am here. Sitting with tattooed students and grey haired beer bellied men while we type, study or read to our heart's content.
But as I look around I'm captivated by one particular lady. She munches on her cream cheese layered bagel and sips from her steaming coffee cup; all without taking her eyes off the pages of a thick book. Her lips curl into a mischievous grin. Another moment her fingers clench in frustration.
She's not here. She's disappeared from this forgotten town in California. Her world is wrapped neatly into four hundred pages of some author's reality.
She begins flipping through pages faster, her eyes flitting at an ever increasing pace. Only after two hours does she close the book and stare out the window and reinvent her version of the book in her mind.
Thank you my Fellow Devourer of Books, you've reminded me of why I'm editing a book for the umpteenth time. Is it too much to hope that one day I will witness someone happily experiencing the romance of Rhett and Isla Belle?
Perhaps, but it's one I'm willing to type my way toward.