Today, I took my book out to lunch. I even dressed up for the occasion. Bright poppy ruffles lightly swirled around my silhouette, falling to the floor just shy of a quarter. To match, wedged heels with linen straps wrapped themselves around my ankles, announcing my arrival wherever I went. The poppy red continued its bloom upwards, accenting my lips, cheeks, and nails.

My book dressed up too. Tall and strong, he stood with a golden velvety tie beaming against his velvety black suit – fresh off the press. What a smashing couple we made.

Envious stares seemed to trail after us as we joined the Sunday procession of the big city. I clutched him close, proudly claiming him as mine as we wove our way through dense crowds, as thick as ancient sequoia trees. Mind you, I’m not the jealous type. And I get that he’s a free man, able to leave at any time, but there’s something about him wanting me and I him—the mutual wanting—that made it all so deliciously special. Maybe that’s why we hardly noticed the cluster of people gawking and grappling around us.

The day we met remains etched in my mind, as fresh as newly caught salmon on the Puget Sound. Naturally, it was in a bookstore. There I was, alone, wrapped in my long trench, hiding behind hardbacks, perusing titles and gathering inspiration for articles, completely absorbed in the land of books. I espied him in my periphery, gazing at the botany section, paging through leaves. Hmm— a plant guy. Green. Growth. Life. I was intrigued. He sat upright on a stool, shoulders straight and back, neck long like a giraffe, and engrossed in his own floricultural findings. His mouth was slightly turned upward into a smile, not afraid to show emotion. He was an open book.

Without further ado, I popped my coat collar because I was a sleuth on a mission. Subtlety was the name of the game. I carefully crept forward, continuing to check out titles and covers of various books that jumped out at me on the shelves. Suddenly, I was next to him, but how to proceed? Fumbling for ideas, I let my arms follow suit and fumbled a stack of books that lay between us, all the while feigning innocent clumsiness. He fell forward, springing to action to help me out, and quickly swooped the books under him to put them back into place. Our hands and eyes met, assuring me that this was the start of something beautiful.

We’ve now found a bench in a buzzing plaza to camp out on for the next few hours, well into the tarde—his hand in mine as I open my poetry collection and he his horticultural editorial—as we enter into adventure together. Overhead, the sun stretches his arms and rubs our heads with warmth.