“I’ve always considered literary pleasure to be my substitute for religion.” I say this to the owner of the bookshop I’m standing in.
The bookshop owner nods at me, the wrinkles on his face doing their best to convey his acknowledgement of my pronounced affinity for the literary arts, his eyes revealing his concern that he may have to endure additional grand statements coming from my mouth.
I reach my hand out and place it on his elbow, letting it linger and squeezing before letting go. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to say that out loud,” I say.
We’re standing at a shelf that the bookshop owner has guided me to. I had asked if he had any titles that were non-religious but dealt with religious subject matter. He’d told me he could point out a few.
“This one…” he says, now pulling a lime-green paperback off the shelf, “…this one may fit the description you’ve given me. It’s a story about an Episcopal priest who takes a second job at a pizza parlor where he falls in love with a recently-divorced coworker.”
I take the book from him and examine the cover. “I’m recently divorced,” I say. “But I’m no priest,” I also say, taking my gaze off the book and directing it toward the bookshop owner’s eyes. “I’m impressed with your recommendation. I would love to purchase it…from you.” I lean into his space and pat him on the chest with the book.
He backs up, to my dismay.
My longing searches for a place to rest.
Finds a spot on the shelf.
“I can ring you up now,” he says. “Or take this up front and have it ready for you when you’re ready to check out.”
“I’m ready now,” I say.
If only he knew how ready.