It Speaks

I borrowed a book from my friend and at first I was amused by the comments she had made in pencil. Every few pages or so, there was a little remark in the margin about what she liked and what she did not. Sometimes she would say “Baxter (the main hero) should quit his job and move to Venice Beach,” or something like that. It was amusing, as I said, at first.

As I read on, the comments grew , taking up all the margins and any blank space there was. Every page had more and more scribblings until they intruded upon the printed text. And then, finally, covered the original text. I could still make out what was printed underneath, but I became consumed with what my friend had written. I read on and on, into the night, ignoring the need to sleep. At some point, the printed text just stopped, as if the author had given up, and my friend’s scribblings could continue unhindered on hundreds of blank pages.

I finished what she had written early next morning. I looked up from the book, half expecting my entire room to be covered in more of her notes. All the curtains, the cushions, the furniture. Even my own body.

But the writing was not there. I sighed and decided I needed a shower before I could go to work.

Posted by: Paweł Kowaluk