Knight sighed. He was riding home, wracking his brain on what to get Mal and Scott for Christmas. Scott was easier – clothes that showed less. Mal, however…
Knight thought about getting him something thick and plushy, like towels or slippers or a tasteful scarf, but that was boring. No, he wanted it to be special, to be different, something he wouldn’t expect from him.
He stopped at a light and happened to look to his right, seeing a woman walking by with a book in her hand, reading as she walked.
Of course, a book!
There was a bookstore back in the main part of the city. He turned Kitty around and went back into downtown.
He drove down a few streets before he found a bookstore, tucked away in a corner. It wasn’t a chain; it looked like someone’s labor of love. It was perfect for what he wanted. He parked the bike on the sidewalk under the canopy and went inside.
A woman was at the counter, and she smiled at Knight when he walked in. The place smelled of books, a deep musty smell of paper that had been left out to rot. Knight wrinkled his nose at the smell, his hypersensitive senses kicking in. “How can I help you?” the woman asked.
“I’m lookin’ f’r a book.”
“I hope so,” she said, again, with a smile.
“I dunno wha’ kind.”
“Oh, for a Christmas present?”
“Yeah,” Knight said.
“For who?”
“My husband.”
She pursed her lips and looked thoughtfully at him. “Hm…is he the handyman type?”
“Goddamn, no,” Knight laughed.
“Does he like history?”
“Some?” Knight tried to think about the titles Mal read, but couldn’t seem to remember any off the top of his head. He only knew the book was sometimes in his way when he wanted to have his way with Mal, and he would put it carefully aside.
“Is he a romantic?”
“Oh, yeah, definitely.”
“I’ve got the perfect thing.” She came out from behind the counter. Knight saw that she walked with a pronounced limp, that one leg almost dragged behind her and she had to swing it forward to gain momentum. Knight felt badly to have her get up like this. She walked over to a book case and put her hands along the spines, reading the names. “Ah, here it is.” She pulled out a paperback book that looked new compared to some of the other books she had on display. She walked back to Knight and handed it to him.
Sonnets from the Portuguese. Elizabeth Barrett Browning.
He opened it to a random page:
I see thine image through my tears to-night,
And yet to-day I saw thee smiling. How
Refer the cause?—Belovèd, is it thou
Or I, who makes me sad? The acolyte
Amid the chanted joy and thankful rite
May so fall flat, with pale insensate brow,
On the altar-stair. I hear thy voice and vow,
Perplexed, uncertain, since thou art out of sight,
As he, in his swooning ears, the choir’s amen.
Belovèd, dost thou love? or did I see all
The glory as I dreamed, and fainted when
Too vehement light dilated my ideal,
For my soul’s eyes? Will that light come again
As now these tears come—falling hot and real?
He read it a couple of times, still not getting it, but he caught the word “beloved” and assumed it was about love. “Love poems?” he asked.
“Some of the best.”
“A’right, I’ll take’t.” He paid the woman and got back onto his bike, tucking the book in his saddlebag.
He didn’t see her smirk while he walked out the door.