Perched on top of a cabinet leftover from the artist I inherited the lease, some IKEA furniture, and a decent mattress from are my special editions-limited first edition hardcover run of Maggie Nelson’s Bluets stashed in an Indigo bag, a UK 1936 first edition of Nightwood by Djuna Barnes with copy by T.S. Sometimes they collapse when I’m riffling in search of a particular title and sometimes they fall over of their own accord, jolting my nervous system in a frantic moment where the boundaries between animate and inanimate objects dissolve. A handful of uneven columns the height of a four-year-old child teeter to the left of my desk. There are piles on my desk, drawers and both bedside tables. My bedroom houses several towers of books. They want to bring me order because it’ll bring them pleasure. Their need is pleading in a way that mostly strips it of butch bravado.
Their wish to build me bookshelves is an intimate pledge, more telling than any kink or desire we’ve shared so far. The door is closed to shut out my roommates and the outer world, to give us this small cocoon as we begin to build our rapport.
We’re entwined in my turquoise sheets in the bright grey light of a spring morning that my one translucent curtain fails to block out, nibbling on olives and cheese in between bouts of honeymoon-stage morning sex. I want to build you bookshelves my partner confides after a few months of dating.
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