Am unwell, perhaps the flu.
I read an advertisement about a book exhibition and I think about you.
Lots of books, little catches my fancy, poke around and pick a few, my eyes fall on a ‘Rs 50 only’ sign, don’t feel lucky but walk towards it.
Stacks of useless thrillers, mysteries and romances, I sigh but prod around aimlessly.
Spot a beautiful book lying in a corner, the cover itself seems more than the amount, pick it up… ‘Under the Tuscan sun’, sounds familiar, scan for the author amid the labyrinth of words, ‘Frances Mayes’, sounds familiar too, wait, she’s a poet.
Am home, in bed, hold the book, think of you, run my hands over the book, it’s $15, but seems virgin, except the pages, which have yellowed in anticipation.
I read the back cover, interesting, but the usual pomp, the preface though is enough… she writes well, you’ll like.
Halfway through the first chapter and without thinking I bring the book close to my face, the aroma envelopes me.
I think of you…