Antique Love

Ethan sifts through the pages of the well worn book, relentlessly searching. Searching for the photograph he only assumed was lost amongst the depths of the paper back. Nothing. He slides it back into its place amongst the other books on the shelf and pulls out the next one . As Ethan flips the book open, the decades old pages fill his nostrils with aromas of mold and matured paper. The lingering notes of the literary musk bring a small smile to his face. His first smile in several days. That smell is love to him. Falling in love even. Not because of his great fascination with books. Nor because of his desire to learn. But because of Arlene.

Arlene used to work in an old antique book shop. Every time they went out on a date, every time they had dinner, every time they made love she smelled like books. He used to tease her for the smell. For working at an antique shop. For dealing all day with elderly customers. But that was a long time ago. Now the customers didn't seem so old.

A small bead of sweat formed on Ethan's forehead, where curly locks once resided, only now a few gray stragglers remain. Arlene used to love his hair. Running her hands through it. Twisting the locks around her fingers. They use to go for picnics in the fall, just the two of them, down by the river in a secret place. They would lay on the ground, with his head on her chest and her fingers in his hair. She always said how much she loved his hair. Even as his hair thinned and grayed through the years, she still loved it. Loved him.

Ethan wiped the perspiration from his forehead with the arm of his faded denim shirt and closed the book. Had he dreamt the photograph? Did he invent its keeping place? He slid his fingers across the remaining books on the shelf, the cloth binding of the books rubbing against his leathered skin, when he stopped, resting his fingers on a book that felt out of place. It was thinner and most definitely newer then the rest, yet the unraveled stitching and well worn corners argued otherwise. Ethan pulled it from its perch and wiped dust from the cover, exposing the once vibrant colors of the ancient illustration. A children's book and one he new well. Could probably recite it from memory if he truly tried. He had read it every night to his son for ages, and than to his grand daughter when she came to visit. Ethan slid open the cover, which momentarily stuck to the page, concealing what he had been so desperately searching for. Tucked into the crease of the cover hid the black and white photograph. Ethan dug the picture out from the book with his finger nails. Nails he just hadn't had time to trim lately.

He squinted through the glasses resting on his nose and waited for his vision to focus. There she was, Arlene. Sitting in the grass by the river in their secret spot. Ethan ran his fingers gently over her face. One which somehow continued to grow more beautiful. Even during the last few years when she couldn't walk on her own and her hair fell out due to the medication, she still grew beautiful. A small date was scribbled in the corner of the image. Forty-seven years ago, almost to the day.

A knock on the door behind Ethan echoes through the room as a middle aged man enters. Ethan acknowledges the man, but doesn't turn to face him, keeping his eyes on the photograph.

"Dad," the man spit out, in almost a whisper, "they're waiting for you."

Ethan nodded as he slipped the picture back in the book and tucked it under his arm. It would be a nice piece to show at the visitation.

He walked toward his son, clutching the book to his hip. Forty seven years. They had been together for forty-seven years. Seemed like a long time to be in love, yet in the turn of a page he was left with nothing more than a lone photograph and the smell of mold and matured paper. But for Ethan, at that moment, it was more than enough. And for the first time, he was glad the woman he loved had smelled like antique books.