There are only two pages left. My elbows are propped up on one arm of the chair, keeping me afloat while my knees sink into the blue and red plaid cushion. I lean at a ridiculous and uncomfortable angle, trying to catch the last orange rays of sunlight spilling in from the window behind me before the sun sets. I hate the thought of having to drag myself out of the chair to flip on the electric lights when I'm so close. My fingers rub against the rough, puckered and yellowed leaf as I turn the page, ashamed of my excitement to see if the Atlantian prince's treacherous brother is truly dead.
I'm intoxicated by the faded, sweet scent of cigarette smoke that seems particularly strong whenever I open to a page that likely hasn't been looked at for fifteen years. It makes me think back to the thrift store I frequent; the place I bought this book and the other bizarre romance novels before it. I have a collection of thesemy boo