The End of the Affair

The old imperishables, distinguished looking books of a certain era, scratched and tried to jump into my hand and sit on my lap. They know well my habits. ‘Where have you been?’they cried in unison.

‘I’ve been trying on another life.

But they didn’t believe I’d neglect them just because of that.

‘It didn’t fit’.

They believed that.

The dusty crones waited for me to talk more man-soiled rubbish; every page an invitation.

‘There’s always somebody that’s a better writer, fighter or lover out there.’

I was boring them so I lit up.

‘Always somebody better looking.’

They protested, of course, which was a timely thing, because a good book never lies.