I tear off the brown paper wrapper. Pristine, almost severe lines. Perfect. I run a hand down the spine. It’s eggshell, that satin sheen that slips so beguilingly under my fingertips. Embossed. Oh yeah. A flowing, generous font, serifs intact because, yes, this book is generous enough to add curlicues and embellishments, cute little flourishes.
I prise it open. Stick my face in deep so the pages brush and press against my cheeks, like softly furred flanks. Push and burrow my nose into the crack. Inhale.
Smells of washed bodies, unperfumed skin puffed with talc. Dry kisses. Clean sweat. Promise.