When I was very little, and I mean maybe 5 or 6 years old, I saw my parents reading their own books while sitting near each other in the living room. For some reason I was in awe, to me it seemed so special that something so personal could be enjoyed with someone by your side, without the need to talk. To be immersed in another world, while still in each other’s.
I remember imagining that my future husband and I would do the same thing one day. That we would both be reading books about outer space, specifically ideas on what the moon was made of, and every now and then would turn to discuss with each other, well, what did we each believe the moon was made of? I didn’t understand science yet, or love. My parents marriage didn’t work out, but they always co-parented me with grace.
20 years later I met someone special and I asked him to read a book that I had just read, so that we could discuss it afterwards. He did, as if it was the easiest thing in the world, to just read a novel that a girl you’d been dating for a month asked you to read.
But it was still a few more months before we’d be lying in our resort room in Mexico, me, sunburnt to an absolute crisp, him sick. We still didn’t know each other extremely well and yet this was our grand idea, to travel somewhere together. We lay in the air conditioned room, me reading my book and him reading his. Despite any stress, I’ve never felt more content, losing myself in another place while knowing how much I wanted to be in this one. I remember thinking to myself, he’s the one. If he isn’t, then nothing I know makes any sense. It’s been a year since then and I still think the same…even though we don’t read books about the moon, maybe we will together, some day.