bookstore reading

I usually stand when I read at a bookstore, an entirely different experience from, say, reading on a train or in bed. I stare at the pages from above, as if looking upon my reflection in a lake. Under my gaze, the small white waters part and I preside over an exodus of tiny letters; page numbers, chapter flourishes, section marks churn up like debris. But soon, the pair of blind creatures that dwell below the surface grow restless, a tentacle or two groping at the grey surf. Beneath their cracked skin and knuckled spines, the world has fallen away – no warm lap, no down comforter, just a no-man’s land where chaos and silence reign.