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“Haruki Murakami’s books aren’t depressing. They’re unique.”
Cole doesn’t read much fiction, if at all. He usually has his head buried in philosophy and psychological books. I know he loves Helen’s books, but they’re mostly psychological crime thrillers. I take a pause when he says he loves a certain fiction author who doesn’t write in the psychological vein.
“What’s so unique about them?” I ask.
“It’s his imagery. He wrenches you out of the world and he offers riddles without solutions, letting the readers solve them themselves. Everyone’s interpretation is different from the other. It’s art.”
I see it then. The gleam in his eyes whenever he reads said books. Cole likes the challenge and being immersed in something so deep, he forgets his surroundings. It’s his own form of chaos.
“Most find it frustrating, of course, and bombard the publisher with endless questions.”
“I think it’s beautiful.”
He lifts his head, raising a brow. “You do?”
“Yes, I think many people need surrealism and to be able to find their own solutions.” Like Cole.
I like Haruki for producing books that keep Cole invested and excited. I even forgive him for breaking my heart in Norwegian Wood.
The waitress brings us our pizzas and bats her lashes at him. Bitch.
“Uh, excuse me?” I force a fake smile. “I ordered mayonnaise with my French fries.”
“Coming right up.” She smiles one final time. I glare at her back as she leaves and even when she brings it to me.
“The service here sucks,” I grumble.
Cole smiles.
“What are you smiling at?”
“Your jealousy can be adorable, Butterfly.”
“I’m not jealous.” I take my first bite of pizza and burn my tongue. Ow!
Cole slides the cup of cola to me, still smiling in that blood-boiling way.
“I’m not jealous,” I insist, taking a slurp of the drink. “I just wanted my mayonnaise.”
“Who even eats mayonnaise with French fries when they have pizza?”
“I do.” I stuff one in my mouth.
He leans over the table so his face is mere inches away and he reaches a hand to me. I freeze. What
is he doing? Is he going to kiss me in public or something?
Oh, God.
Cole wipes my nose and then sits back down. “You had something there.”
I release a long breath, not knowing if I should feel relieved or disappointed. What the hell is wrong with me?
We spend the rest of the meal in easy conversation about other fiction authors Cole reads, which aren’t a lot. Aside from Haruki Murakami, there’s Helen, John Le Carré, Honoré de Balzac, Kahlil Gibran, and Lee Child.
Speaking of, Cole says there’s a new release by Lee Child that he needs to buy, so we swing by the bookstore after we leave the restaurant. He teases me all the way about my mayonnaise eating habit. He really does enjoy getting on my nerves.
So in the bookstore, I load the dice against him. “Hey, nerd. You’re supposed to live your life, not spend it stuck in books.”
