the same page

I know you’re reading the same novel as I am. I overhear you mention it. My copy is lying on my bedside table. It’s precariously close to the icy condensation left behind by a drink I can’t remember the taste of anymore. Every time I turn the page, I imagine you turning it too, way over there, right across the city. I try to read the words as if I were you. I try to change my perspective, disregard my point of view and squeeze from each page a drop of your reason.

We don’t see eye to eye. When I speak you can’t hear me. When you talk I get confused.

I may as well be reading a different novel altogether.

Perhaps I will.