Drinker of Ink

by Shannon Castleton

Rumpled and weary, he struck me as an earnest farmer again—a modern-day version of Thomas Hardy’s Gabriel Oak, who would look a woman in the eye and say, “Whenever you look up, there I shall be—and whenever I look up, there you shall be.”

“You make me self-conscious.” His voice tripped all the hair on my arms up.

“I opened a door for you,” he said, as though he apprehended every glint of my metaphor.

And that’s how we stood until a flashlight-wielding officer happened by, blinding us with his beam of white light. “I’ll give you two minutes to kiss her, young man,” he said, “but after that, this lot is closed for the night.”

It might be both happy and sad, but where there’s happiness—like, good, bright happiness—you take it.”

Posterity, if you dislike reading about me kissing a man who may or may not turn out to be your many-great grandfather, please, be my guest: You can skip those parts.

didn’t know exactly what we were to each other at that moment—boyfriend and girlfriend, soulmates, future lovers? I still don’t know as I write this entry. We have never named what we are together. Him and me, two people who give words to everything.

True love. Is it normal, is it serious, is it practical? What does the world get from two people who exist in a world of their own?

On the topic of Slovene: Yesterday, Peter placed his Anna Swir collection of poems in my hands for keeps and called me his miška, his little mouse, which should probably feel sexist and demeaning, but really, it only made me think of kissing him in the rain, in a fedora—if it would stay on my hair—in a place with fat-spired buildings, like Moscow.

find myself trying to envision my sister. In newborn photos, Luc and I look almost exactly alike—pudgy red cheeks, whorls of black hair, dark eyes so large we could barely open them.

I studied him as his body processed his fear.

Although, please God, forgive me—I still wouldn’t want Peter to live in Slovenia.

Finally, I said, “You probably feel homeless because you were born in California.” I could tell his lips over my head were grinning. “You really dislike California.” The two of us burst out laughing.

To Vivienne, mon buveur d’encre. “Your drinker of ink.” The name was perfect—a more elegant version of rat de bibliothèque—“library rat,” or “bookworm.”

First there is the question of distance— the length of her hair, the arc of her shoulder, her willow-thin arm from the elbow down. How many steps, how many days, how many words till I hold her?

I know I taught class today, said something about metaphor, but all I could think was Why won’t she look at me? My

“I just need—” I turned to Adèle. What did I need? With my free hand, I rubbed at my eyes. “—that . . . woman.” As I write now, I believe that one sentence might embody all the need of the last five years of my life.

Postscript: I saved Vivienne’s cookie until just after finishing this entry. It’s true—hint of almond, tiny shower of salt. The thinnest crisp surface, then soft, thick, and sweet. Sophisticated but comforting. She perfected the chocolate chip cookie.

“I guess perfection is just . . .” Dropping the tote-strap to her hand, she began slowly swinging it. “Not thinking of what could be different.”

“I should have.” I stared at her hands in her lap, remembering how even touching them had felt like a declaration of love for me. “I was so afraid of hurting you. But we should have said I love you as the punctuation between sentences. It was the punctuation between sentences.”