Page 12 of Book and Ladder
“Not him. He could be the last man on earth, the future of civilization depending on our union, and well … sorry human race. It’s been real.”
My friends laugh. I’m dead serious where Patrick’s concerned, but I laugh along with them.
Cass clarifies, “Let’s narrow the list of eligible candidates down to all single men between the ages of twenty-five and thirty-five … with jobs … and decent personalities …”
“That bar’s so low it’s subterranean,” I argue.
“Agreed,” Carli says. “I saw this post on social media where the mom took her boys into the yard and picked up a garden hose. They lined up. She’d list off things like, ‘Buying her flowers,’ or ‘Holding her door open,’ or ‘Taking her on a special vacation,’ and the boys had to answer ‘bare minimum’ or ‘princess treatment.’ If any of them said ‘princess treatment’to any of her statements, she literally sprayed them, and good!”
We all crack up.
“I promise Child Protective Services did not need to be called,” Carli adds. “This woman was doing the girls of her boys’ generation a massive favor.”
“And her boys,” Cass adds. “Think of all the future nights in the dog house she spared them.”
“Happy wife, happy life,” Winona adds. And then she yawns.
I look at my phone. “I’d better call it a night.”
“Me too,” Winona says. “I open tomorrow.”
We say our goodbyes and I drive home. Patrick’s car is out front of my duplex—a painfully poignant reminder that he’s trespassing in my life.
His Mustang GT makes my blood boil hot enough to burn off any trace of drowsiness before my key even hits the lock.
I pad upstairs, brush my teeth and put on my pjs. Then I make myself a cup of tea and snuggle into the pillows against my headboard. I pull up the podcast app and turn on my favorite bookish podcast,Burning Through the Pages.
The host’s voice is low and soothing. It doesn’t hurt that he’s a man who loves books. On a previous episode he confessed that he uses a voice disguising app to do the podcast so that he can be what he calls “a civilian by day and a bookworm by night.” I’d give anything to know who he is.
“Tonight,” he says in his warm, comforting voice. “I thought we’d talk about the theme of loneliness in literature. Specifically, I want to dive into Fredrik Backman’s book,A Man Called Ove.”
I sigh. It’s a favorite of mine.
The host continues, “I could say so many things about this book—about how life circumstances can shape a person. I could do an episode on grief. And maybe I will in the future.We could consider how one kindness can have the power to actually save a life, or how there’s more to a person than what meets the eye at first blush. I almost feel remiss not digging into the nuances of Backman’s use of metaphor. He’s a master, am I right?”
“You are,” I answer quietly into my tea before taking a sip.
“But tonight,” the host continues. “I want to talk about loneliness, which, I think, is significantly different from solitude or singleness. A person can be comfortably alone—even in a crowd. Many can live fulfilling lives of singleness by choice. Loneliness at its heart doesn’t have to do with solitude. It is the experience of feeling disconnected, unseen, or lacking meaningful companionship. And for Ove, in his story, he experiences deep loneliness after the passing of his wife and the loss of his best friend.”
The host goes on to discuss loneliness in light of Backman’s book. I hang on his every word. I know a lot of men. None of them are as articulate or passionate as the host ofBurning Through the Pages.
After forty minutes, he closes with his standard sign-off. “Thank you for listening. And remember, you can always reach out through the show’s email, or leave a comment on your podcast app. And remember to subscribe as that helps keep the lights on. I wish you a good week filled with great books.”
The episode ends.
I set my cup on the side table and stretch my arms overhead.
Those last words softly echo in my brain:you can always reach out.
I’ve never been one to even comment on podcasts or book reviews. Something about tonight’s topic has me itching to write an email—just something simple, thanking the host for his thoughtful treatment of a vulnerable subject.
I stand up, walk across my room, grab my laptop and return to bed.
After I power it on, I open my email app and hit “Compose.”
I stare at the blank screen, and it stares back, daring me to take the leap.
“He won’t ever know who you are,” I tell myself out loud.
