When we broke up you gave me a book and said, “Read this.” You gave it to me with one hand and another of the same book in the other hand and said, “I’m going to read it too. We’ll read it together, by which I mean at the same time, and when you’re finished reading then it’ll be time for us to see each other again and with something to talk about, by which I mean this book, so come prepared.”

I looked down at the book, Of Human Bondage by W. Somerset Maugham. All I knew of the author was that his last name was pronounced “Mom” and that the density of his book made my heart sink. It would be at least two weeks before I could finish the book, by which I mean before I could see you again.

I leaned in close to give you a hug. If you let me give you a hug I was going to go in for a kiss, and if you let me give you a kiss I knew exactly what I was going to try to do next, and then maybe we wouldn’t have to go through all this book business and we could talk about what we always used to talk about, which right then I couldn’t entirely remember what but certainly nothing to do with books. I leaned in and you pulled back, said, “Too soon, Douglas. Read the book.”

I went home and opened the book. I read the first two sentences, “The day broke grey and dull. The clouds hung heavily, and there was a rawness in the air that suggested snow,” and flipped to the last page, the last sentence, “Cabs and omnibuses hurried to and fro, and crowds passed, hastening in every direction, and the sun was shining.” 611 pages from the cloud hanging heavily with a rawness in the air to shining sun, and through them was the only way to you, so I opened the book again, I started with the clouds, I began reading.

At 28 I read, “She loved him now with a new love because he had made her suffer,” and thought that was enough for a first go, put down the book and took a nap. Woke up from the nap anywhere from thirty minutes to an hour later and picked up the book again, but was hungry now, put down the book, made a sandwich. Made a drink. Remembered the last time we made love, you and I, had sex we should call it now for propriety’s sake and for the sake of my future constitution, did it, like it’s something one does, continued reading, fell asleep with 136 and 137 lying on my chest.

It took ten days to finish and when I read the last word I picked up the phone and called you and said, “Finished,” and you said, “No you’re not,” and I said, “Read every last word including the Foreword,” and you said, “Well I’m not,” and then told me that you still had another hundred pages to read and it was like you were breaking my heart all over again, like Mildred’s merciless torture of Philip. “Can’t you read faster?” I asked, and you said, “Too soon, Douglas. You’re too soon.”

“So what did you think of it?” you asked me. It was four days later and we were sitting in a bar far too far away from either of our homes. “Because I thought Philip’s infatuation with Mildred was really a symbol of his own self-loathing,” you said. “I thought it was only after he let her go that he truly learned to love himself.” You took a sip of your scotch and soda, left a trace of lipstick along the rim.

“Really,” I said. “Because that’s not what I got at all. I mean, sure Mildred leaves him heartbroken and sleeps with his friend and drops him for a scoundrel,” I said, “breaks his heart over and over again and he still loves her, but not because he hates himself, I think, instead loves her because loving her gives his life purpose.”

“But he’s a masochist,” you said. “It’s right there in the title.”

“He’s a romantic!” I said back.

“But what’s the difference?” you said, said kind of loud or at least louder than I thought necessary though I’d have preferred if you hadn’t said it at all, and I thought then how strange that I’ve been waiting, looking forward to seeing you for so long now, two weeks, and now that you’re here in front of me all I can think of is going home and looking forward to seeing you again. Like obviously I’d blown this one, didn’t know when or how but it was clear you were angry with me and too hard to get from where we were right then to where I’d like us to be when you said, “I value your opinion very much, Douglas. I believe you have some very interesting things to say on a whole variety of topics and I look forward to hearing your thoughts on our next reading,” you said, reached down into your purse and pulled out another book, nearly as thick as the last. “I think this little book group of ours shows real promise.”

I didn’t look at the book until I’d already made it back home, in my armchair with a bottle of beer by my side. Love In the Time of Cholera. I opened it to the first page and read the first line, “It was inevitable: the scent of bitter almonds always reminded him of the fate of unrequited love,” and then I threw it across the room. It hit the opposite wall and made a dull, hollow sound before falling to the floor. I stared at the book lifeless and broken-spined for a good five or six minutes and thought all I wanted in the world was to see you again, and then I walked over, picked up the book and began reading.