“Do you suppose you might bring me that paperback book sitting on the living room table?” I ask ever so sweetly, just as my husband starts off to watch his favorite program.
He looks pointedly at the book I’m holding open in front of me – Little Face, a rather disturbing psyhcological thriller by Sophie Hannah.
“Aren’t you already reading a book?” he asks.
“Well, yes…but I would just like that other one nearby…if you don’t mind.”
A small sigh escapes his lips – I hope it’s one of fondness and not exasperation.
For I must admit, I’ve been tasking the poor darling with lots of small requests today. You see, the ravenous reader has fractured her foot, and has been consigned to her easy chair and ottoman for a few days. And while this might sound appealing – the chair and ottoman part – I’m afraid it has already begun to lose its charm, even with a rather impressive bookstack piled up beside me.
Except for that one little paperback who has gone astray – ahh! there it is now.
“Oh, thank you so much, sweetie!” I say, tucking it up next to my side. There now, I feel much better.
Books are so comforting, aren’t they?
Now tell me, do you have a favorite comfort book?