I was picking up a book at the library the week before Valentine's Day when this book caught my attention on a display because of the heart on the front.
It is a story about a couple and the different stages and emotions of their relationship presented in short entries with a one word title in alphabetical order. The format of the book is refreshing with the word play as its focus, instead of concentrating on the chronological events. I also love the cover art with word titles from the book presented in the shape of a heart.
Some of my favourite entries include:
contiguous, adj.
I felt silly for even mentioning it, but once I did, I knew I had to explain.
"When I was a kid," I said, "I had this puzzle with all fifty states on it -- you know, the kind where you have to fit them all together. And one day I got it in my head that California and Nevada were in love. I told my mom, and she had no idea what I was talking about. I ran and got those two pieces and shoed it to her -- California and Nevada, completely in love. So a lot of the time when we're like this" -- my ankles against the backs of your ankles, my knees fitting into the backs of your knees, my thighs on the backs of your legs, my stomach against your back, my chin folding into your neck -- "I can't help but think about California and Nevada, and how we're a lot like them. If someone were drawing us from above as a map, that's what we'd look like, that's how we are."
For a moment, you were quiet. And then you nestled in and whispered,
"Contiguous"
And I knew you understood.
That was for the romantic in me. The scientist in me loved:
paleontology, n.
You couldn't believe the longest relationship I'd ever been in had only lasted for five months.
"Ever?" you asked, as if I might have overlooked a marriage.
I couldn't say, "I never found anyone who interested me all that much," because it was only our second date, and the jury was still hearing your case.
I sat there as you excavated your boyfriends, laid the bones out on the table for me to see. I shifted them around, tried to reassemble them, if only to see if they bore any resemblance to me.
The lover of lyrics and symbolism in me loved:
ubiquitous, adj.
When it's going well, the fact of it is everywhere. It's there in the song that shuffles into your ears. It's there in the book you're reading. It's there on the shelves of the store as you reach for a towel and forget about the towel. It's there as you open the door. As you stare off on the subway, it's what you're looking at. You wear it on the inside of your hat. It lines your pockets. It's the temperature.
The hitch, of course, is that when it's going badly, it's in all the same places.





