I remeber that sunset stained afternoon I sat waiting for him in his grandmother's living room; the same sweet dewy caramel day I brought to lend to him my favorite book.
Drawn was a small smile on my face, as I had once again held grasp of the worn brown leather cover of my dearest and most treasured book.
Favored lines were either underlined or encircled, but of the same a gold glitter pen. The yellowed pages scribbled on with writings and pencil sketches of how I had presumed the characters and scenes of the chapter to appear.
It was as if I were leaving notes to whomever would posses of the book, were I to ever part with it.
From behind me, he whom always provided quite an excellent audience asked, "Does the lady wish grace my collection of tattooed tree corpses with her presence?" He bowed low and elegantly extended a hand.
Placing my hand on his, I beamed. "Of the day that seems the hue of dull orange, brightens to a vivacious yellow at thy genteel invitation."
I was scarcely able to contain myself as we tread up the stairs. Through the beige walls and the first door on the left, was his room. Adorning the wall was a large shelf that brimmed with books from one end to another.
Feeling the worn leather on my fingers, I began to regret having ever thought of lending him this mess of a book. I slowly turned to the tall mug that leaned on his door frame, all the while lowering my arm in attempt to hide the book behind me.
"Mug, would you rather have a book in a dead language or a book lost and never found?"
But his eyes caught the movement.
"I would rather have that book you hold,
"As on its pages are your thoughts and sketches,
"It has you, Cup."
YOU ARE READING
Cup's
Short StoryFor Curtis Paisley, days pass like bland, monotonous paragraphs of plain thought and narration; till a strong gush of storm and gray eyes flipped through the pages almost aimlessly, before finally settling to the paragraph of his appearance... and w...
