Fantasy number 7

Note: I told I friend of mine that I wrote a fantasy diary, and this person asked me to publish one of them. So here goes.

Fantasy n. 7

They're in their mid or late twenties, a few years older than me, and they've known me for a while. Enough to know what I like.

On a winter day they call me, and tell me to come over to their place for coffee. It's cold outside, the sharp kind of cold that you can't run from or wear enough layers to stop, but I don't mind. I walk fast, face flushed and an almost smile on myself. I get to their house and ring the doorbell. They open the door, utter an excited "hi!" and give me a quick hug, inviting me in. As they'd promised, coffee is ready and they hand me a cup (they know me well enough to know that if it's good coffee I'll have it black, on ice in summer, freshly brewed in winter). They show me into the sitting room and tell me to make myself at home, and to wait a minute, they have something for me.

The sitting room walls are completely covered with bookcases, one of the things I love about them: every book on the bookcases they've ready, all of them they've chosen carefully, lovingly. I take a closer look, always drinking my coffee. The books are organised by author, but not alphabetically. I detect a penchant for history books, and an original language bias. There's also a chronological order (in fiction, this order has to do with the period of the author; in the history books, this order depends on the topic of the book, which makes some of the author ordering confusing). Historical books are in separate bookcases to fiction, and there's a separate bookcase for dictionaries, and yet another for technical books.

-Hey, -I hear them say, but before I have the chance to turn around, a blindfold's over my eyes. I take a sharp breath, and I feel my whole body tense and relax at the same time.

-Like it?- they whisper in my ear, sounding a mixture between eager and concerned, but they don't wait for an answer. They grab my hips and turn me towards them.

I nod, my mouth dry. They first take my coffee cup from my hand, and lead me around the chairs, until we're next to the sofa, where they sit me down. I'm smiling, I can't help it, even though we haven't known each other for that long.

I expect them to sit next to me, but instead I hear them step out of the room, and open a door... the kitchen door? I hear the coffee maker and soon I can smell coffee, good coffee, better than the one they gave me before. And something else. Sweet perhaps?

They return, and the smell of coffee comes full force into the room with them. They hand me a mug, a different mug, pulling my hand out so I won't miss and spill hot coffee all over, and then they sit next tome. I smell the coffee first. It's strong, sweeter than I'm used to, or maybe softer is the word I'm looking for, as though the usual bitterness has been worked out of the bean. I then proceed to taste. It's hot, hotter than I expected, but I hold it in my mouth. No, it's not bitter, it's purely coffee flavoured, perfect coffee. South American, by the taste of it, amost flowery, if coffee can ever be described that way.

-Colombian?- I ask to my right, where I know they're sitting. I can almost hear them breathing.

-Hmhmm. -they say, and I imagine them nodding their heads, cup of coffee in hand, maybe some of it in their mouth, looking at me. -Open your mouth.

I obey without question. Somehow I trust them, Maybe because I know they are me, or like me, close enough that it can't hurt.

They shift their weight and then place something in my mouth. It's crumbly and almost sweet, that full taste that comes with good baking, where the ingredients have combined to make something that doesn't quite taste of any of them, but of something almost magical. It has pecans, that are crunchy and bold, and a fruit, raspberries maybe?, that adds some acidity and at the same time softens the mix. It's delicious. I savour it, and swallow, and thank them.

We sit in silence for a while, drinking coffee, and the house comes alive. It smells a bit damp, just like all the houses in this city, and I can hear it, creaking and howling, even though we are the only ones inside. I suspect I hear mice in the wall behind me, and I can hear the traffic from outside. Somehow, I know it's raining, probably some rhythmic tapping registering somewhere just within my hearing that I can't consciously distinguish. I feel my body settling into a rhythm, almost like I'm meditating, feeling everything around me. They are quiet, and suddenly, I feel embarrassed, I've gotten too comfortable. Are they watching me?

-What are you thinking? -I blurt out.

-I want to take you somewhere. -they answer.

-... OK.- I don't understand where the hesitation comes from, maybe just giving myself time to enjoy the power of choosing, maybe some fear of what will happen next. I feel a bolt going up my back, and balance is restored.

They get up, and take my empty mug from me. They then take my hands in their warm hands and pull me up from the sofa. They turn me around, my back to them, and put their hands on my hips again, which instantly makes me breathe a little faster, and they start steering me. They help me put my coat on then, and lead me outside Walking this way is slow, and I can't help but wonder what others in the street are thinking.

The ground feels different, maybe because I'm more conscious of it now. Hard sometimes, then it changes, the asphalt softer than the pavement. They never let go of me, they tell me clearly when I need to take a step, or when there's a crossing or a turn. They are an excellent guide, and I suspect that they've done this before, and also that they're enjoying pushing me around, and maybe even enjoying that I'm willing to be pushed around.

-Stop -they say quietly, and I stop. -We're here.

They take their hands off my hips and step away, and I think I make a sound, disappointed. I a door opening, and I am pushed inside.

The first thing is the smell. It hits me hard, musty, but not really, familiar, almost warm, pleasant, full, warm, worn. The smell of ink and paper and of every human hand that has touched each page. Next, I notice the sounds. No music. Whispers, a chuckle. The creak of a spine groaning. The ripple of a page turned, the rustle of so many books in a small space. I reach my hand to my right and I feel the row of uneven volumes. Some hardbacks, others leatherbound, yet others paperbacks with creased spines.

-A second-hand bookshop! -I say, excited, smiling brightly.

They chuckle, and take my blindfold off, and it takes a few seconds for sight to reassert itself as my main source of information. The shelves are painted green, and there are so many books I'm almost sure most of them will be bad. I start running my finger over spines, reading titles. I was wrong. The selection borders on excellent, they have everyone. Spambauer, and Rushdie, and Roth. Sontag, and Gordimer, Boyd, Lee and Salinger, of course, Carver and the rest. They are all there. I pick up a volume that I don't know, but an author that rings a bell, but I can't quite place, and I start reading. I get into it, get lost in the book, distracted, and I don't know how much time goes by. When I finally look up, remembering I'm in a second hand bookshop and why I'm there, they have disappeared. I feel my stomach drop and my back grow cold, and my smile fades. Where are they?

I go deeper into the small shop, and find that behind what I thought was the last bookcase, there is a staircase leading to the basement. They're standing at the base, looking at the history section, and fingering a book I recognise, one by Paul Preston on the Spanish Civil War. They're absorbed, clearly looking for something missing from their own collection, something they know is missing. I smile, happily. I know that exact look, because it's my look. We may not know each other that well, no, but it doesn't matter. They are a version of me, or I'm a version of them. I couldn't know them better.