"Sir your book!"

I could never own a kindle. Well actually, I take that back...sure I could own one but I would never even turn it on, definitely not. It would probably become a place for candles to stand tall and burn on. Dont get me wrong, I am an avid reader but I need to avidly feel the pages, touch every word, become intoxicated by the smell. Books protected like children. Some unknown bond between me and them. My books are loved, underlined, dog-eared, folded, rolled, torn, worn. When I begin to drown myself in a book I need its presence always on me, even if its just to quickly glance at its binding. A needy relationship for sure, but I bet the book needs me just as I need it. I think I fall in love with the actual pages. Too good to put down, too hard to let go. I rarely lend books out unless I am as close to certain as possible that I will be getting them back. When the "as close to certain as possible" fails me, and my beloved book disappears for good, I feel like Im missing an extremity and I long for it. Today on the train, while I had a no-longer-meaningful mix blaring into my eardrums, the man across from me got up to get off and accidently forgot to take his book. Instinctivly I screamed "Sir your book!" Everyone on the packed, peak train turned and looked at me. Let's just say that the pitch of my scream of horror was because of my song in ear and from that my hearing balance was off. I literally shouted at the frail, mid-aged intellectual. And thats what I replied when the stares of other passengers kept coming "Sorry, I didnt realize how loudly I yelled." But the truth is, no matter if I was listening to Bach on the lowest setting, or Glassjaw turned all the way up, or simply the sound of the train against the tracks I probably [in splitsecondthoughts] thought that maybe this man was like me and needed, not wanted, his book.