Page 9 of Scorched Rose
I reached out to take the book but he held it for a few beats, staring into my eyes with unnerving intensity before releasing it.
“Once you’ve read that book, everything else will disappoint you.”
He perched on the arm of the chair adjacent to mine.
“Then why would I do that to myself?”
He answered with another question. One that stunned me.
“Don’t you want to be astounded?”
“I-I don’t know.” I could have kicked my leg off with that inane response but I had something of an image to uphold so I pretended I wasn’t a total imbecile and continued. “I mean, yes. I do want to be astounded. Doesn’t anyone?”
He scratched at the scruff appearing on his chin. “You’d be surprised.”
“Don’t take this the wrong way but you don’t seem to like…people.”
His mouth ticked up at one corner and small creases appeared at the edges of his eyes. “I don’t like people who don’t have depth.”
“And what, to you, constitutes depth?”
“Most people these days like everything to be handed to them on a platter. They don’t want to have to look for the good stuff or wait a second longer than they have to. They want to be able to binge it now, have it delivered the next day. They want everything they own to be on show, to air their private lives in public. They want to be in the spotlight. Just like Andy Warhol predicted, everyone will get their five minutes of fame, and boy do they want it.”
“What’s so wrong about being in the spotlight?”
“It makes shadows seem shameful.”
I swallowed. “I’m sorry?”
“Shadows aren’t something to hide, or to be ashamed of. It’s not the light that makes things beautiful, it’s the dark. We seem to have forgotten that.”
I flipped the book over, finding it suddenly captivating. Haunting and enlightening. I wanted to devour it, not only to become impressive to a modern-day beatnik like him, but to acquire all the knowledge he had. To consume the same words and phrases, adopt the same thoughts and philosophies. It would be a few more years before I defiantly followed my own pursuit of the truth. Right then, I wanted his. His words drew mw back.
“We find beauty not in the thing itself but in the patterns of shadows, the light and the darkness that one thing against another creates.”
I couldn’t tear my eyes from him. He looked so nonchalant, as though profound statements left his lips effortlessly every minute of every day.
“It’s a quote from the book,” he said.
My voice was a whisper. “It’s beautiful.”
He leaned towards me, bringing his warmth into my orbit. He smelled of smoke and caramel, a dizzying combination. Hepatted his hand on the top of the book, his fingertips lightly brushing mine. “That’s why you have to read it.”
“I will,” I replied, my voice cracking with dryness.
He stilled over me and his gaze burned holes in my skin. “In fact, you can start now.”
“I’m sorry?”
“Do you trust me?”
Heat scorched my cheeks. I nodded.
He slid to the floor and leaned his back against my chair, his left shoulder knocking gently against my right leg, making my breath stutter in my lungs.
“Turn to page thirty-two. Start there.”
My fingers shook as I turned the pages. I read the whole chapter to him, and another, lowering my voice whenever customers ventured nearby. Each time they became aware of our presence they moved away as if sensing our unspoken need for privacy.