Foolishly he’d been trying to take off his sock while standing up. Gravity worked against him, as did his balance, as did the cat that simultaneously decided that was the best time to get under his foot.
He fell. He toppled. He saw stars.
He hit his head on something he believed was a bookshelf, which was odd since he didn’t read–could never get through the dang things. He found books interesting for the first twenty pages then inevitably there was dinner to be made, or a rug that needed straightening. Plus, why keep the things? You read them once then they just keep up space. Or dust. Or just a dirty reminder of another failure.
So maybe it wasn’t a bookshelf…hell, maybe it was. What was the saying? A rose by any other name would still be called a bookshelf? Man, he must have hit his head pretty hard. Maybe the bookshelf was a state of mind. Who was he to call it a bookshelf? It could be a nick-knack nook or a dust depository. Maybe it was a museum of half-read novels. He looked up and inspected the wall as he inspected the welt on the back of his head…
He looked up.
Huh. It was a bookshelf.
On the ground was a book sprawled out on the floor from its fall. A postcard with his handwriting had fallen out of the pages, noticeably from the front of the book. He picked it up and read the back which noted the date was 8 years prior.
Hello from the outskirts of Nowhereville, USA!
I’ve found myself in a cabin with nothing more than a bearskin blanket, a warm fire, and some piece of mind. And this book you gave me. So far it’s looking to be quite the page turner!
Well, it looks like my dinner is done cooking. Freshly caught salmon calls me!
Reading habits foiled again by distraction and dinner. He hadn’t changed much.
He looked at the book in his hands and flipped through the pages. He returned the book to its resting place back on the bookshelf. He’ll get to it eventually.