Fingertips

I can’t remember when  first was able to do it. I go into the bookshop.

I look at all the covers, so bright, so beautiful. All those words. All those words on those pages in those books. I think about the money I am saving. I think of those poor starving authors. I think of them but I do it anyway.

I see one I like. I touch the cover. Just two fingers on the cover. I absorb it. It is hard to explain. All those words just seep out. Into my fingertips. They tingle and swell. This must be a wordy tome. I wait a minute, with my fingers on the book. Inhaling it. 

I know the shop assistant thinks I am odd.

 I have been here before to do this. I wonder if one day they will ask me to leave. To stop. Say no. I wonder if there are others like me. Who come here and slide their fingers knowingly over the books. I wonder if the shop assistant knows. I watch how she looks at me. Ours eyes lock. They have locked before. She knows.

But she only knows I have a secret. She doesn’t know what it is. I can feel the words, travelling through me. This book is in my blood now. Every word.  I hold it there. Inside of me.  All those words streaming through me. Travelling around inside me. Liquid words. Like the best champagne you ever had.

My fingers. The words. They connect. I leave.

Hours later. I make a coffee. I sit in the garden. And all those words, they run before my eyes. It is not quite reading. It is like the book has become part of me. I feel it. Every word. In my head. I sense it. I absorb it. Each page passes through my mind. It is a beautiful experience. A secret.