It was a chance encounter. I like to tell myself that I stumbled upon him, but the fact of the matter is that he was there waiting for me. Waiting for my eager fingers and eyes. Waiting for my shallow cover to crack. Waiting for my curiosity to peek under his own cover. I fell in love years ago with a simple string of words. With the nostalgia. With the biting replies. With the sarcasm. And then I forgot. I came back to him on lonely Friday nights. Like the ungrateful lovers he often talks about. Only there to satisfy a moment's itch. Only remembering because of a chance encounter of the eyes. He probably deserves more. More than a dusty shelf in a forgotten library. I probably deserve more than this person I'm becoming. I should probably dig deeper than the same two pages that I almost know by heart by now. The books you read are a reflection of who you are. But who am I if I barely ever read anymore? Maybe it's time I give Minulescu a thorough read. He deserves it. And so do I.
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