She really liked the fact that he read, more than any boy she had ever met. It set him apart, and it gave him culture. It gave him knowledge, and knowledge is power.
She liked it more than the way he dressed, which was charming, really. She fell for it more than she fell for the way he looked. She thought that if he was a girl he’d be on the cover of a magazine for some rare exotic beauty, what with those deep almond eyes and shy crooked smile.
On days when the gray rain poured and the songbirds fell silent, he would sit in the corner and read. She watched him. She wondered what the words looked like under those long dark lashes. She wondered what vivid characters were constructed in his head, and what exciting journey was about to happen.
She had been surprised, when she first peeled back his layers like an onion and got to who he really was, that he was like this on the inside. He shouldn’t be like this, she thought. He’s a good-looking, smart, incredibly athletic guy. He’s dated girls at the top of the tier. He cares more about tomorrow’s game than the elections next week.
For once in her life she was completely wrong and she was overjoyed. She enjoyed discussing the inadequacies of the current day federal government with him, and how there were ways to constitutionally fix them. She cherished the moments when they sat down and defined the term of a “good book” so they could finally wade through all that crap in the school library for insightful literature. She always beat him at the state capitals game, although he beat her at pretty much everything else. She could stay serious when they discussed life objectively, and laugh when they had already read the required books for the spring semester.
It was too late for her to paste back all the layers she had carefully uncovered; too late for her to pretend she didn’t know his secrets, his fears. It was too late, because she’d already fallen in love.
So she didn’t cry when he finished her story and slotted her back on the shelf. She’d read enough to know that there could always be a sequel.
She liked it more than the way he dressed, which was charming, really. She fell for it more than she fell for the way he looked. She thought that if he was a girl he’d be on the cover of a magazine for some rare exotic beauty, what with those deep almond eyes and shy crooked smile.
On days when the gray rain poured and the songbirds fell silent, he would sit in the corner and read. She watched him. She wondered what the words looked like under those long dark lashes. She wondered what vivid characters were constructed in his head, and what exciting journey was about to happen.
She had been surprised, when she first peeled back his layers like an onion and got to who he really was, that he was like this on the inside. He shouldn’t be like this, she thought. He’s a good-looking, smart, incredibly athletic guy. He’s dated girls at the top of the tier. He cares more about tomorrow’s game than the elections next week.
For once in her life she was completely wrong and she was overjoyed. She enjoyed discussing the inadequacies of the current day federal government with him, and how there were ways to constitutionally fix them. She cherished the moments when they sat down and defined the term of a “good book” so they could finally wade through all that crap in the school library for insightful literature. She always beat him at the state capitals game, although he beat her at pretty much everything else. She could stay serious when they discussed life objectively, and laugh when they had already read the required books for the spring semester.
It was too late for her to paste back all the layers she had carefully uncovered; too late for her to pretend she didn’t know his secrets, his fears. It was too late, because she’d already fallen in love.
So she didn’t cry when he finished her story and slotted her back on the shelf. She’d read enough to know that there could always be a sequel.
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