Book Bag

I have a bookbag that I keep in my closet. The primary compartment serves as my DC apartment junk drawer occupied by various screwdrivers, batteries, and glucosamine supplements for my dog who at one point had bad knees.

The other, smaller compartment is where I hide a handful of letters that have been sent to me over the years. I'd say roughly twice a year on a quiet night I'll pull out these letters and reread them.

These letters are from people I love. 

Most of these letters are either goodbyes or written knowing a 'goodbye' is imminent. Most of these letters are sweet, complementary, and manage to paint me with a brush that has long since browned the cup of water in which it was discarded.

The words allude to my ability to 'live in the now' and 'help me be comfortable being myself' as well as a handful of other nice things that, again, I seem to have lost a knack for since the ink dried. And then something like 'I'm sorry to see this end'.

But that's why I read them. What once made me 'me' lives within whatever it is I am today. And, twice a year, I pull down that bookbag from the shelf and remind myself that this is so.

_________

I have a routine that I can practically perform with my eyes closed. I meet or am introduced to someone and, within the first day's back and forth, I steer the conversation to the topic of books. I like books. It's fortunate that talking about books sets me apart from the influx of testosterone fueled angst and dick photographs I understand flood the inboxes of single women of this century.

After sharing my favorite book, genre, etc., we usually have a date scheduled in the next two or three days at a local bookstore that serves drinks and dessert until very late. It's filled with people who have baggy sweaters, tight pants, and artisan coffee stained teeth. I like that.

I show up roughly 10 minutes early and browse the Vonnegut section because (1) he's my favorite and (2) it positions me in the bookstore such that my back is to everyone so the burden of making first contact is often not my responsibility. I hate that.

Shortly before the time we had agreed to for the date I receive a message saying her preferred method of public transportation is going to make her 5-10 minutes late. No big deal - I've been here before. I pretend to read the back of some novel that I already read until I hear the soft voice of someone who knows nothing about me: "John?"

Yes.

"It's nice to see you"

"Yes, you too"

And we hug with one arm.

I ask if we should start with a drink or perusing the bookshelves and the answer is always the former. Nothing loosens up the tension of a first date quite like three feet of space, alcohol, and a stranger that periodically interrupts a choreographed conversation to ask questions like 'have you all decided on anything?'

And by this point, we have. I get whatever beer is the darkest as she orders red wine. More often than not, they are out of whatever drink I order and I have to, first, select a lighter colored beer and, second, remind myself not to make the joke that 'this always happens when I come here' so as to maintain the illusion that this is a unique experience that both of us are sharing.

'Illusion' may not be the appropriate word. The truth is, I enjoy these moments. I enjoy these first dates. I love the bookstore and I love the small wobbly tables that occasionally cause my beer to spill over the sides of the glass and form puddles that eventually drip onto my pants allowing me to actually make a joke about pissing on myself. The bookstore and the countless first dates it's hosted have not grown old.