Write about: the bookcase.
Max and I made our triumphant return to Mother Goose this morning, after not going for over a month. He seemed to enjoy it (as usual) and didn't have a huge meltdown later in the day from being overstimulated, so I'm hoping we'll be able to go regularly again.
Either way, it was nice to see that we hadn't been forgotten during our absence.
"Please, help yourself."
I glanced over my shoulder, fully expecting to find our host leaning against the door frame with his hunting rifle in hand. Daring me to be foolish enough to believe him, so that he could justify the bullet in my back as having thwarted a brazen robbery. One of his precious books clutched in my pale, clammy grip all the evidence required to ensure his freedom from prison.
But no, he was empty handed. His smile seemed sincere. He even waved a hand to bring my attention back to his bookcase.
"Whichever one has caught your fancy."
"Are you sure?" I was looking at the display again, unable to look at him while questioning his words. "All of them are so... perfect."
"And I can see that you appreciate that," he said with a rumbling laugh that rattled my bones. "So pick one - but only one - and enjoy its contents. If you bring it back in one piece, then perhaps you can trade it for another."
"Thank you," I whispered. Biting my lower lip, I reached for a silver book, its title printed on its spine in bold, black letters. Then I paused, changing aim at the last moment and grabbed instead a red book with a white title.
"Ah, a fine choice."
I mumbled another thanks, eyes on the floor, as I hurried past him into the hallway, the book clutched in my little five-year-old hands.