Hunched over at Sqirl in Silver Lake, I underlined particular passages which I had dog-eared, read the poems of Dr. Zhivago at the end of the book and imbibed some of the most praised morsels in LA.
The combination of a good book and good food is not always easy to attain, and I wasn’t taking this hour for granted. The scent of the weathered volume managed to waft through the scent of sausages browning and biscuits crisping in the oven of the tiny cafe, taking me back to my second year of college.
I’m twenty one. The room is pungent with the weepy, warm scent of the tree bark leaflets of old books. I scan the poetry section at a library book sale for familiar names or a new title that would spark interest.