Inklings
I got off work late again, mostly because I had to help support a colleague with some minutiae. Not altogether a bad gig, but something I wanted to do. With the sun still out late in the evening, it wasn't a big deal to still be at work. It didn't help that my clocks in the office haven't worked for a good few months. At least I knew they were always right twice a day.
I got home, fielded a phone call from a student, and set about to find food in the kitchen. Nothing. I walked downstairs to get the ground turkey from the freezer, and threw it in the microwave to defrost. I grabbed my last book conquest, "Paris to the Moon" by Adam Gopnik. I first got this book a few years ago, when I went to San Diego on a trip. I unfortunately lost it on the plane on the way out, and wanted to report it to lost and found, but Husbandido got impatient with me, and I wound up leaving it for someone else to read.
As I have been on my own these last few months, I have been able to read a lot, and by a lot I mean four books in as many months, most of them in the last month, actually. First was My Horizontal Life. Ghettonation. Suite Francaise. The Road. Now Paris to the Moon. The microwave ticked down its last seconds, just as I finished the last few pages I set aside last night. I have a deep love for Paris, for France, and this book helped me to find that connection again, like someone searching for the light switch in a dark room.
As the last lines reached into me and curled around my swelling heart, I closed the book reluctantly, as if it was a forever goodbye. I stroked the cover, thinking about how many nights I lay awake, my neck bent in a lazy manner poring through pages and pages, only to close my eyes and feel as if that life is only a few heartbeats away.
I got up and moved the now thawed meat to the counter. I chop some scallions and prepare them for the pot. Putting my hand over the pot, I feel it getting warmer and warmer and throw the scallions in, inhaling the sweet pungent smell. Next goes in the meat. I stir it, listening to the sparkling sizzle. A lid put on, I walk back to my room and get my next conquest, The Harsh Cry of the Heron, by Lian Hearn. I took out my bookmark from Paris to the Moon and stared at the cover again, wistfully. I debated on whether or not to sell it back to Green Apple Books, but my decision will come later.
I walked over to the pot again, and stirred it, the pale pink meat now brown. Steam rushes out of the pot, disappearing when I add tomato sauce and kidney beans. Then chili powder. I look at the new book, study the artwork, and open it.
Voodoo