Collecting Dominos

She dragged her fingers slowly over the dark, pebbled leather. Each pore feeling every individual bump and grainy groove. It spoke to her, whispered. She ran her middle finger along the edge, toying with slipping her finger under the cover and flipping it open. The edge, different than the front, was rugged and daring. Almost sharp... dangerous. Her finger dipped slightly underneath the flap then trailed away from the notebook onto the smooth leather seat. Immediately she could tell the satire between the leather bound pages and the plastic “leather” seat she was sitting on. Time stopped as she focused on it. It sucked her in. Thoughts flooded her imagination of what could be inside. Who...could be inside. Who would leave such an important item? Who could leave behind their inner workings inside a taxi cab? This was precious, she knew it. A gift. A definite sign from the universe.

A jerk of forward momentum and a screeching halt alerted her to her destination. Without hesitation, she grabbed the notebook from the seat and stuffed it inside her bag. Nestled next to her own notebook, she noticed the two fit together nicely. Grazing both notebooks as she reached for her wallet, she could feel heat emanating from the pages. It’s as if they were speaking a secret language to each other, the words melting one page to another. Oh the things they would know about each other. A shiver zipped up her spine. She wiggled a little bit to shake it off.

She opened the car door and stepped onto the cobblestone street. She was in no rush to be inside with the notebook. She had it now. Whatever the contents were hers. Climbing the steps, poised and subtle, she made sure that if anyone was watching her that it appeared to be a regular night.

She looked at the two notebooks, one next to the other, genuinely unsure of whose was which. She’d always prided herself on the principle that a journal is sacred. She’d had far too many lovers and parents breach the ultimate privacy of reading a notebook. She vowed unto the highest power never to do that to anyone else.

She needed only the first page. She had to open it.

Serious journalists always write their names in the first page and a place to return to if anyone ever finds it. It’s their most precious thing. And this person was clearly a serious journalist.

She flipped the first page.

She held her breath a little. Who does this belong to? No name. Only a scripture and a stamp. The stamp declared, “Welcome Home” in a country inspired Times New Roman that feels warm and inviting, mimicking the shape of a monogram. The scripture read: “For all those who wait, you can't hurry slowly. Warmth and heart await your fury, please remember where you’ve come.” She ran her fingers over the words, over the deep grooves in the page where this message had been written. She could sense deep longing in the pressure of the pen marks, whoever wrote this was casting a spell unto the words. Calling people in. Drawing them home.

But no name.

No address.

How am I supposed to get this to the owner? She thought. Fuck, what do I do now?

Her fingers still tracing the letters, she wanted to press her fingers so deeply into the words that she could feel the person on the other side. Perhaps the pages would let loose their fibers, allowing her through for a grasp. She thought maybe, if she let herself go enough, that she could do it. She could graze whoever wrote these words.

It’s a dead end. She closed the notebook, set hers on top, filled her wine glass with a deep burgundy liquid and oak aroma, took a sip and walked away.

But she couldn’t keep her eyes off it. After every text she sent, every sip of wine, despite her constant trying to distract herself, she looked. Dating apps. Masturbating. Food. Yoga. She couldn’t stop thinking about the grooves made into shapes that formed letters on the front page. She brought her glass, sat down at her grey marble counter and took a pen to the pages of her own notebook, still on top of the other, to feel close to it.

She could feel the writing writhing underneath the surface of the stranger’s notebook. Letting out breaths of air. Beckoning to her from under the surface, under the mask. She could feel the heat rising. She knew the notebook wanted her to know it. To be intimately involved with its contents, it’s insides. To see them. To feel them. To witness and behold them. To be a part of them. Intertwine in their story and become one with them. She knew this was the permission she ached for.

She moved her notebook to the side.

She stared. Eyes wide and pupils dilated with excitement. Every second elongated with the turning in the air. Everything slowed. She anticipated the smell of sweet leather that would whif towards her as she opened the notebook. The crack of the bind as the notebook opened and the crisp sound of the pages turning, one to the next. She ran her finger over the pebbles again and the tip of her finger down the edge, inserting it slightly, slowly, as she moved inside. The same scripture appeared on the first page, a little worn from her sweaty fingers running over the letters so intently. She licked her finger, put it on the tip of the page and turned it, hearing the movement of the bind as she gently pressed it open, laying her palm firm on the pages that were determined to close, a grounded palm right in the middle, keeping them open so she could begin to read….

“There’s not a talent in this world that I would not perceive as beautiful. Not a talent in the world that I would not perceive as a threat. As beauty eventually turns to rot when once realized that it is beautiful. Man can’t stand beauty, we must own it. And the pure act of owning something makes it less beautiful. As soon as we have that thing the light shimmers less brightly and we desire the next shiny object as our own. Why don’t we learn? Where does contentment lie in the masters field? Is there ever comfort with what is? How has it become? Always what she will do we do. More. Movement. More forward. I detest the cycle of more. I want beauty to be as it is. Without it, there’s no worth in living. Without it there's no worth of love. How do I make love to pure beauty? Without wanting to own. Without dulling it’s shine? How can we all make love to beauty with allowing it to be beauty and divine?”

She stopped. Her hands quivering and damp exasperation leaving her slightly gaped lips. What the fuck am I reading? Who is this?

She felt a sharp pang to her heart. She rubbed her chest a little to alleviate the sensation. She was pulsing, her body electric with the power of the words. Who writes in their journal like that, she laughed. What the hell? But she was in, all the way in and besides, she hadn’t found the owner yet, no names, no context clues, nothing. She had no choice but to continue. Another guzzle from the bottle and swish of the class as one more pour finished the last of the contents of the bottle. One last scrape of her glass on the counter before she dived in….

She poured over and into 6 months of time… into this person's life, into their story, into their being. As she read, the scenes of this person's existence became her own personal tv show, a live immersive experience that she controlled with the lick of a finger to the edge of a page. Each page turn like a ticking tock and another layer of the onion being peeled away. She liked the way this person saw the world, the way they interacted with themselves, the way they felt, tasted, smelled, heard the things around them. She liked that this person was a person of conviction. They believed firmly in their viewpoint of the world, brashly if not crassly but still, she appreciated it. She was never sure what was real or not, they were always sure of what was or what wasn’t. That assuredness was missing from her world. It gave her an anchor. Pulled her down to earth. She noticed that there were only a few pages left but still… no name, no context clues. She knew every intimate detail of this person's life: lovers, friends, work, fears but didn’t know a name. Did it matter? Did she need to know a name to be in love? What do we fall in love with anyways? Is it a name? Is it a physical presence? Is it some reassurance of existence? Of reality? What makes love…. Real? What makes love...safe?

To love mostly the continuous leaps of faith into the unknown, she was amongst the grandest gestures of all. 7 hours later, 2 wine bottles deep and she was in love with someone she had never physically met yet knew deeper than anyone else she had ever known…

She felt a nudge to stop reading. If she read to the end then what would she have left? Her relationship with this person would be at a stalemate. At an impasse, no longer a road to keep going, the runway had run away.

She set the glass down and took a deep breath. To her surprise, a long sigh came out of the other end. She took notice of her body, how tense she had been while reading this very intricate exploration of the psyche. She was so sucked in she forgot the presence of herself. Her own physical bounds that set the limit on immersing, on fully letting go. Could she do it? Could she dissolve her skin and become the pages of this book, intertwine with the telling of this story? How far must she go to let this person in?

“No” shaking her head, “That’s silly. I can’t give up all that I know to be a part of someone else’s story. No matter how intriguing, illustrious, desirous, encompassing. I’m my own story. My story is worth writing. My story is worth living. My story is the key to my own desires, my own conviction. My story is worthy of my own presence. If I must go outside myself to experience this thing, if I must leave what makes me, me to intertwine in this story then it’s not mine. It’s not for me.”

She looked around at her beautiful apartment, small rays of sunlight starting to peak their way through the chiffon curtains. Rays of mauve and pale yellow cast upon the dark wooden floors and the colorful array of greens reflecting from her lucious plants in the corners. One bright red burst of orange from the vase that holds her dried, hand picked lavender. Her anchor back to this world. A reminder of her perfect day. Her perfect day that is always around the corner. Her perfect day that is hers, not someone else's that has convinced her through poetic language and strength of voice. Hers.

How long had she been sitting here? Doing this? How many hours has she been pouring into someone else's life, someone else’s story? Too many, she laughed and shrugged. With one page left to go, she closed the journal and tossed it out the window. After landing, a gust of wind blew it open, fluttering pages to the last defined crease: the last page in the notebook.

It read:

Now that you’re here, if found, please return to Russel Brandon @collectingdominos