Tattered-Cover Love

The morning I lost my favorite book, I embarked—as I always did—on a thousand-and-one side-quests before coffee. I waited impatiently for water to fill the percolator, my sock sticking to a bit of apricot jelly on the floor. I scanned for the sponge, but it wasn’t in its usual place by the sink. A felt-tip marker was on the counter, bursting with creative potential. Beside it was the battered paperback I’d selected to occupy the thirty-minutes of treadmill hell I planned to endure after work. It was January. I’d made a resolution to give indoor exercise another try.

The percolator properly watered, I set off to grab my gym bag so I could pack the book before I forgot. My sock refused to follow, still stuck on the topic of the jelly. Sponge. The sponge wasn’t where it belonged. Screw the sponge.

Finding my gym bag (in the laundry room, not the closet), I threw the necessary clothes inside, pillaging from the unfolded heap atop the dryer. But I paused as I reached for my beloved book.

The cover was tattered beyond legibility. The glue, older than I was, yellow and cracked, released its pages at the slightest provocation, like fall leaves to the first breath of winter. I loved this book, for it kept alive a fairytale romance that I had long abandoned any hope of obtaining for myself. The book was out of print. If I lost this copy, it would be like losing a piece of my heart.

In my hesitation, there was the felt-tip marker, bursting with creative potential. I popped the lid, and gently folded back the tattered cover to the first blank page. Below the author’s dedication, I scrawled my own plea:

“To the person reading this note: I have a horrible habit of losing the things I love. Please leave this book where you discovered it. I will eventually realize it is missing, and when I re-trace my steps, I will be grateful that you understood.”

With a final pang of foreboding, I dropped the book into my gym bag, and resumed my pre-work preparations. The coffee hadn’t brewed, because I had neglected to put grounds in the filter. An hour later, I braved rush-hour traffic, squeezed into a parking spot, dropped my umbrella, stepped in a puddle, and rolled into the office—soggy—and late to the morning meeting. By the time I clocked out for the gym, I was eager to sweat away the stress of the day — even if the pouring rain dictated that my sweating occur indoors, on that boring torture-device, the treadmill.

Once in the locker room, I discovered that I’d forgotten deodorant and my mother’s sworn method for removing stains had failed this particular t-shirt. Undeterred, I grabbed my book and headed for the cardio room, where I was immediately confronted by a floor-to-ceiling reflection of my inadequacies: frizzed-out hair, rumpled clothes, blotchy skin.

My face would never launch a thousand ships. But I’d settle for one.

I was flanked on either side by glistening, yoga-pant goddesses whose flowing tank-tops skimmed shapely curves while they pranced in effortless synchronicity with the rumbling track beneath their feet. Beyond, in the weight room, musclebound men watched the goddesses like wolves scenting prey. I was steamed broccoli.

“Doesn’t matter.” I mumbled, as I opened my book and punched the treadmill up to a comfortable walking pace. Let the wolves have their goddesses. I was after love, not lust.

Still.

I stole another glance in the mirror. One of the gym’s trainers caught my eye and the smile he flashed was contagious. My heart did a little skip.

A goddess swooped in out of nowhere. She swatted him playfully on the chest, and my heart crawled back into its shell. I couldn’t compete with these women. I didn’t have the patience to exercise every day, to stay on top of the latest makeup trends, or to master the complex chemistry required to maintain silky hair in 99% humidity. I couldn’t even show up for work on time. What man could love a woman who misplaced everything she touched—even her kitchen sponge—and used dirty socks as a reminder to clean apricot jelly off the floor?

I closed my book and focused on the TV above my head. I never watched football. The refs interrupted the action far too often to quibble over rules I didn’t understand. But in that moment, that inscrutable American pastime was the only thing keeping my tears at bay.

The timer stopped on the treadmill, and I jumped off, sweating, parched—anxious to leave this place and never return. I kept my eyes firmly planted on the floor as I made my way back to the locker room. I didn’t want to see my reflection, the smug pity of the goddesses, or the indifference of the musclebound men. From this day forward, I would resume exercising only outdoors, where my mind could wander freely, and the temptation to compare could not drag me into a spiral of self-loathing.

That night, I reached for a murder mystery, one of the many cluttering my bedside table. That weekend, I did laundry. I emptied my gym bag and shoved it into the coat closet. Spring rolled around. I began hiking again. On a particularly balmy Saturday, I decided to visit my favorite winery and have a picnic, bringing my beloved tattered-cover book for company.

There was no conspicuous gap on the shelf. My library would never be alphabetized by author, or organized by genre or cover-color. Mine was a bookish-dragon’s horde of secondhand shelves jam-packed with a chaotic riot of literary bliss. And so, there were no clues to aid my frantic search.

I tossed my small apartment, my pulse quickening as realization set in. My beloved tattered-cover book was not here. Numb, I flopped into my reading chair, just off the kitchen. And in my despair, there was the lone felt-tip marker, still on the counter all these months later.

I remembered the note that sharpie had penned. I remembered putting my book into my gym bag. I remembered that horrible day on the treadmill. The day I became so lost in self-pity, that I forgot all about my beloved book. I forgot the story that reminded me to hope.

Thus, against all hope, I rushed to the gym. The note would work its magic. It would save my tattered-cover treasure. It had to.

I parked like a drunkard, burst through the doors, ran up the stairs and into to the cardio room. The treadmills were all occupied by prancing goddesses. I walked past each one, scanning for my beloved tattered-cover book. There was one vacant machine that I hadn’t noticed before, two from the end. Athletic tape secured a handwritten sign:

Out of order.

- Management

PS: To the girl who lost her book, please see the front desk.

I nearly tripped on my way down the stairs. The attendant was scrolling on her phone—Tilly, according to her name-badge.

“Do you have a lost and found?”

Tilly ducked behind the counter and produced a forlorn, printer-paper box. “Knock yourself out.”

I rummaged through an assortment of sunglasses, water bottles, ear-buds and magazines. My book was not here.

“Is there another lost and found? I’m looking for a book.”

“Nope.” Tilly shrugged, absorbed in her screen. But I wasn’t about to repeat the failure that brought me here. I wasn’t about to let self-pity cause me to abandon the book that gave me hope that someday, my prince would find me.

“Can you check? Someone left a sign. The one on the broken treadmill.” I asked, craning my neck to peer into the office behind Tilly. Maybe there was another employee—maybe someone a bit more inclined to be helpful. But the only other person had his back turned, and appeared to be engrossed in his lunch break.

Tilly offered a suspicious squint. At least she was making eye-contact.

“That was months ago.”

“I know. I just realized it was missing.”

“The book. Describe it.” Tilly challenged.

“Beat to hell. I wrote a message inside, it said—”

“To the person reading this note: I have a horrible habit of losing the things I love.” The man emerged from the office, holding my book in front of him. The smile he flashed was contagious. “You came back.”

I wanted to respond, but my throat had closed up.

He slid the book across the counter and leaned on his elbows, waiting.

That smile. I recognized that smile.

“You. But she…I thought…” I croaked incoherently, recalling that day on the treadmill, and the goddess who had batted flirtatiously at his chest.

“I’m sorry I moved your book. I couldn’t risk something so precious getting lost. Plus, I was hoping to see you again.”

I took my beloved paperback, nestled its familiar, frayed edges safely in my hands—the cover was still warm from his touch.

“I’m a mess” I blurted. “And I don’t cheat. So, if you’re married or dating or something then I’m flattered, but hard pass.”

He laughed. “Great! How about I take you out for coffee, and we can find out what else we have in common?”

I frowned. Irritated. Why was it men never listened.

“You’re not getting it. I lose the things I love.” I waved the book in front of his face for emphasis. “This note wasn’t a pickup line, it was a promise. I’ve ruined every relationship I’ve ever had. I won’t remember your birthday. I might even forget a date or two. I’m always late. It takes me an hour to make coffee because I get distracted by a thousand-and-one things along the way, and none of those things are cleaning. If you—”

“Can I say something?” He interrupted.

I swallowed. This was it, the let-down. I’d just torpedoed any romantic notions this man might have been kindling all these cold, winter months. Well, good. I didn’t know what he thought he saw in me, but it was better to shatter the fantasy now, before either of us got attached. Fairytales were for tattered-cover books. They certainly weren’t for me.

“Go ahead.” I nodded.

“I’m not looking for perfect. I’m looking for something like that book of yours. I’ve been looking my whole life”

“You read it?”

“Of course. You made me wait so long to ask you out, I had to do something to pass the time.”

I crossed my arms.

“I’m serious. I’ve dated perfect. It’s boring. It’s shallow. Not you. You had this confidence about you, like you didn’t give a damn what anyone thought. Now that I’ve met you, I can see you have no idea the treasure you are. So, if you’ll let me, I’d like to spend every day showing you what I knew the moment I saw you on that rainy day in January.”

“And what is that?”

He reached across the counter and took my hand.

“That you’re exactly like the book you love—a little frayed, tossed aside by a world that doesn’t see your beauty. You’re an epic adventure in a sea of penny-dreadfuls. I want to memorize every word of you."