He stared at the last page. He stared at the last sentence specifically. He was about to close the book, but he decided that this last sentence deserved a little more attention, so he stared at it a little more. When it seemed like he had given it enough attention, he closed the book with a sigh.
Now he stared at the back cover. He could stare at the front one too, but he had done that way too often—every time he opened the book to read a little bit, and it was a long book. But he had never looked at the back cover with a sense of finality. Now he had finished the book and looking at its back cover meant putting all the impressions it had left in one, creating a gut feeling that would correspond to the book. So every time someone said, oh, do you remember that book, that specifically molded gut feeling would rise up to his throat, he would swallow, and it would hurt.
He knew he would miss the book even while he was still reading it. That’s something he never liked about himself, the ease with which he got attached to people even if they were characters of someone’s imagination bathed in the perfect sunlight to make them suitable for sale. He ran a hand through his hair, which had noticeably grown sparse over the years with a tiny bald spot like a sun being born into the universe. He knew he was ugly just like the main guy in the book had been. The guy in the book had managed to be with his dream girl, but it only lasted for half a year, so who cares—he should have never been with her at all.
He put some butter on a loaf of bread and stuck it in the microwave. He stared at it go round through the tiny, purposefully blurred window and imagined the last sentence of the book, the one he had stared at right before he had slammed the back cover shut. The microwave let out three shy beeps to tell him it was done. He set it for one more minute—more time for him to watch his loaf of bread go around (the butter had melted already). When that minute was over, he set the microwave to one more minute, and he did that several times. He was intrigued by the smell of burned bread that filled his nostrils and his entire kitchen. After a little bit, he concluded he didn’t want to set his microwave on fire. This time when he heard the shy beeps, he opened the little door with the tiny window, took the loaf with his thumb and index finger and threw it in the trash. It burned the soft skin on his desperate fingers.
After walking back to the couch, he found the book still looking at him with its back cover. Tears came to his eyes because the book, fallen on its belly, knew it was read, finished, done for. He wasn’t sad for the book—it was a wise book, sufficient in itself, not needing anyone else. He was sad for all those people who didn’t know they were read, finished, and done for, who still thought they had a chance to be themselves and yet be with someone else. When he tried to apply that to himself, tears came to his eyes.
His sadness was not one of loneliness but one of doubt. He asked, Book, how can you be so comfortable with yourself? How do you not ask yourself if you are right or wrong, book? The book kept looking at him, now with one eyebrow raised, a suspicious look, on its back cover. He dropped the subject. I think I should make myself another toast, he slowly thought out loud, then got up, pressing his hands against his knees for support. His back was hunched over, still asking itself whether it needed that toast or not, and his knees screeched. The book mocked him from the couch: are you sure?
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