I’ve never seen you happier than when you find a new bookstore. You walk into each one like the love of your life is behind one of the stacks.

I can’t remember the last time we walked by that one bookstore in the East Village and your eyes didn’t light up at the open sign hanging on the storefront window. We would be walking down the street, looking for something to do on a Friday night, and you’d jump at the sight of this place.

You’ve stopped having to ask for permission to take a detour inside – we both know I can’t stop you from going in. So I just follow you in, watch you choose an aisle with careful precision.

You trace your finger over the covers like they’re each telling you something private. Once you start picking them up and reading the backs, I watch your face closely. Most of the time, your reaction is just one of intrigue or mild interest. But once in a while, I can actually see you fall in love.

Your eyes brighten and your mouth opens the slightest bit like you forgot to breathe and are just realizing it. Sometimes, your left eyebrow raises, like the source of your admiration has just humored you in some way – taunted you to possess it.

When you finally regain composure, I ask you the same question I’ve always asked you toward the end of our detours: “are you buying anything?” But you never do. Instead, you place the book back on the shelf and trace your finger across the cover before shaking your head.

Then you pull out one of the notebooks you’re always carrying and scribble the name of the title at the bottom of your list of other books you plan on collecting one day.