Waiting

I hated this place. A nearby fan flooded my pages with dusty air, and the hard shelf I sat upon awoke me to a back ache every morning. I sat amidst a sea of thousands, just another copy. All I wanted was to be ideolized, at least paid attention to, but my cover read to be overlooked. To be met with the same passion with which I was bound was simply all I desired. Instead, trapped between those exceeding me, I slowly perished. I was starved; none knew hunger like I, desperate for hands and eyes. 

The Exchange of Goods and Services in Pre-Sargonic Lagash. I hated the name. It left the tongue with a stale after taste, but I knew I had so much more to offer a reader! If only they would take me off this shelf. I was trapped here, left to die in a row of historical literature the world had long since forgotten. All but one, The Rise and Fall of Rome. I hate to admit to jealousy, but my pompous next-door neighbor was the reason behind all of my disappointment. Those visiting my shelf were so infrequent, that when one teenager looking for a passing book report stepped down the isle, my spine began to quiver. Time and time again, the child’s hand would creep down the row, snowballing my anticipation, only to plummet as Rome was lifted off the shelf. 

I envied that book. I just wanted to be read, held, carried! To travel, and see the world, supposedly so astonishing. I often conveyed these desires to another neighbor, Abraham Lincoln, a Man of Faith and Courage: Stories of Our Most Admired President, but it goes nowhere. I wanted companionship above all, which is something another book just couldn’t fulfill. Created by humans, I felt an intense connection to the species, craving their affection. I was quickly losing hope, and began a transition to despondency, until I noticed a pattern in my library’s attendance.

A man returned to my isle for the fourth time that month! Once a week, to choose a new tale of historical literature. Now I had grown curious. I was quick to assume that he was here for me, and simply didn’t know it yet. As the weeks went by he drew closer, seeming to be going down the isle, one book at a time. I observed, and yearned for his touch. I couldn’t help fantasizing about what it would be like to be read by him. He was a young man, maybe early twenties. He wore thick, horn-rimmed glasses on his nose that accented his black widow’s peak. Imagining him as a young scholar, older than his age, seemed fitting to me. I watched as he turned the pages of my neighbors, with grace and care, almost a religious touch. The months drew on, his approaching hand still all that was holding my pages together. I became more conscious than I’d ever been, alert to every footstep, anticipating his weekly arrival. 

At last that time came, the day I would be read once more. I had counted his progression, one book a week. For once, this was the time a hand would not pass my spine. I heard the squeak of leather on tile, saw the glint of lenses turn the corner. My pages fluttered in anticipation as he proceeded down the isle, his hand lifting to my shelf. His fingers flitted over the pages towards me, sliding over my spine, lifting Rome out of the spot next to me. Once again, I was left waiting. 

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