Sunday 9 December 2012

I is for Incandescent

Wisp and I decided to cruise around the area; Wisp’s first memory as a … whatever we were … was here so Wisp probably died around here. We hoped that Wisp would recognise a name, a place, even a photo on a mantel. Anything. As long as Wisp could start to understand their origin.
We meandered down toward one of the larger roads. This was one that led into the city and hence was constantly busy. There were trams, trains and buses. Supermarkets, clothing shops, markets and bars. It was the teeming life of the area and, therefore, a good place to start.
The old library sat on a side street just off the main road. It was an art-deco building, an original that had kept its sweeping lines and curves. If I had a heart then it ached when I saw it. The amount of time I had spent in that place. Sometimes with friends and family, sometimes alone. I adored that building; and not just for its architectural beauty. It was the home of books and the bookshelves ran down the main room in long lines, shelves heaving beneath the weight of so much paper turned into art. I told Wisp I was going to take a look inside. I’m still not really sure why I did that. Yes, the building was lovely and so were the books but they would still look the same as they did a week ago when I was last here. It’s not like I could take anything with me either. I didn’t have hands let alone my library card.
I swept down through the automatic doors. I wasn’t sure if I could go through solid objects and the reason I hadn’t found out is that I still acted like I was alive; I still waited for doors rather than trying to headbutt them. Old habits die hard. I groaned inwardly at the death pun but I was cut short. There, in the dim, wood-panelled vestibule, he sat. Ivan was seated on a blue plastic chair, the one closest to the glass doors. He had a book in his lap which was angled toward the door to catch the only light. A lock of dark brown hair had fallen onto his forehead. I imagined he had pushed it away several times — he always used to do that. It was part of his charm and his charm was never lost on me. My courage was, though, and I never told him how I always thought of him as mine. As I watched him glowing in the light from the doors, incandescent in a room almost empty of light, I wish I had told him.

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