I've always yearned to lie beside the man I love and discuss a good book. To me, the mere idea of it feels romantic. Intimate. Even arousing.
No man I've cared for thus far, my ex-husband included, enjoyed reading books. Sure, they'd scour over a newspaper or the odd motorcycle or hunting magazine. But when it came right down to reading an actual book -- fiction or a non-fiction -- it was brushed off off as "unmanly" or "uninteresting".
It's not that I didn't try -- sometimes I practically pleaded with them to read. But I'd hear:
"Ohhhh, but it's so big."
Or: "Just sum it up for me real quick."
Or: "Are there sex scenes? Naked pictures? Does someone get killed?"
So I'd resort to placing it obviously on their nightstands. Unmistakable. A flashing reminder: READ ME.
Yet there they always remained. Untouched. Unopened. Collecting dust.
So I gave up and accepted. I told myself, "Lots of men don't like to read. It's a personal choice, Delaine."
But you know what?
It always kinda hurt.
And now... now, as I think about what qualities I want in my next partner, that romantic, long-ago vision returns. It's not that I'm expecting an English professor -- it's just that I've learnt quite enough about dirt bikes, hunting and fishing.
I want the sharing, the communication, the stimulation of a like-spirited partner -- on all levels. I want connection, attentive ears, thoughtful responses, maybe even a good debate. I want to watch him scour the pages as he ventures to the same place I eagerly roamed.
I want a partner who will lie beside me and discuss a good book.