The Book

The book waited on Shelf 7, Row 13, Floor 3. Anxiously.

It had been eleven years, thirteen days, and two hours since he’d last been touched. Picked up. Examined.

It had been thirteen years, twenty-six days, and seven hours since he’d last been checked out.

He remembered the good years. He’d been instrumental in the lives of Ricky Steinfeld and Mark Struce and Becky Fleishman. He’d even been key in Samantha Claypool winning second place in the Newbury Park High School Essay Contest.

He remembered the long nights and early mornings his creator spent making him. Writing, rewriting, revising, toiling to blister and bone.

Four years and two months ago, a patron picked up the two books to his right. Her fingertips glossed over his binding – hovering idly, lackadaisical. He could feel her eyes scan over his spine before she turned on her heels. Footsteps echoed, growing faint against the tile.

The book thought of all the love he still had in him – ready to give to anyone whose name got jotted in the manila card in his book sleeve.

He still had nail biting stories, beautifully crafted prose, and three-dimensional characters. Long forgotten, but still there.

He still had what it took to be someone’s favorite book. Somewhere.

He had what it took to change a life – if only their eyes would read what he had to say. If only they would open him up.

It was in those moments as the lights of the library went out, floor by floor, room by room, that he wondered if he’d ever again get the pleasure of meaning something to someone.