Reading a Book

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 The man asked the woman, “Would you like to have one more coffee with me?” 

They met in a cafe, he was immersed in a book, and she wanted a coffee dearly after losing her job. 

“The manager was always hostile to me,” she thought. 

Looks had crossed between them by chance and both had smiled for no reason, across the scent of coffee, filling the place. The smiles traced a flickering path for their eyes in the fragrant air. That was when she moved to his table. 

“Which book are you reading?” she asked. 

He showed her the cover. It was the autobiography of an actor. He was on the last few pages. “What did you learn from this book?” she asked.

“There is nothing to learn. I just lived his life for a few hours. Books let you live other people's lives,” said the man.

“The lives are numerous as books are. All these stories are about how we falter in life. Maybe these books would help you pick which way to falter,” laughed she.

He knew she was talking nonsense. She knew that too.

But they were suddenly feeling good for no reason. 

“All the good times lack reason,” thought the woman. 

For a moment, she considered whether she should offer to meet him again. He was also pondering over some thought similar, she knew. 

But then they parted without that promise and dissolved in the crowd, never to be seen by the other again. 

Parting like that was like reading a book, they thought afterwards. One never knows what happened after the book ended and what was there before it began.